Wherever the Dandelion Falls
by Lingering Lilies
Summary: Like a rope that has come untwisted, there are three strands of Brittany Pierce's life. How could a simple interaction between two people be the difference between becoming a bartender, a lab assistant, and a sex worker? Maybe random events determine our destiny; maybe they don't.
1. A Rope Untwisted

A/N: At last, the long-awaited story! I'm so, so excited about this one, guys. I have a lot planned and a lot written, and I can't wait to share the journey with you. I love these variations on the characters so much, and I hope it will be a good way to spend the upcoming summer hiatus, not to mention cope with canon. I'm here until the bitter end, folks. This story is a different format than most, but I hope it's easy to adjust to. If anything is unclear, let me know.

I'd like to thank my biggest real-life cheerleaders, my beta JJ (themostrandomfandom), and my best friend Jane (PrairieJane), who always soothes my doubts.

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**Wherever the Dandelion Falls, Chapter 1: A Rope Untwisted**

* * *

Sometimes if I stop to think for too long, I get this sickening feeling in my stomach that throbs through me, telling me I'm making all the wrong choices. I have the wrong friends or the wrong job or the wrong degree or I'm wearing underwear that might be a little too dark for these pants. The worry creeps up on me, then plows through me like a MUNI bus, leaving me in a cloud of eco-friendly panic, convinced I'm ruining my own life. Because it's my responsibility to live it right, right?

No one ever told me it was going to be like this. I thought I'd have a quirky aunt that would tell me which choice to make and why, with a dependable amount of clairvoyance. Never mind all my aunts are sane and live back home in Michigan, and never mind I've never been close to them. Since no such fairy-god-aunt has apparated, I'm forced to give everything my best guess.

Sometimes my best guesses suck. Like when I agreed to go out with Henry from my first semester seminar in Molecular Neuroscience. There was nothing offensive about him. I just had no business going out with someone I barely knew. Or rather, someone who knew nothing about me. Well, in an effort to avoid that end-of-date awkwardness, I made out with him and let him grope me a little. Mind you, this is grad school, not sixth grade, so it really should not have been a big deal. But the next week I find I've got this reputation in my graduate cohort for being easy, which isn't me at all.

Don't get me wrong, I love sex as much as the next person. But not indiscriminate sex with the numerous guys who approached me with grossly confident smirks over the next few semesters, as though they were certain I was a sure thing because Henry led them to believe I was.

I guess what I'm saying is, early mistakes can mess things up pretty bad. So I'm always trying to avoid those. The result is, though, that I end up with a bit of emotional and social paralysis. I don't make enough moves to seem interesting. I put so much effort into not ruffling other people's feathers, I forget to preen when it's appropriate.

Here's an example: a year ago, my roommate and best friend Justine set me up with a girl. The girl was very pretty and very smart and she had great style. I liked her. But I never got comfortable around her. I didn't know which shutters to open first. My passions? Fears? Wishes? Quirks? It was like the doors on an advent calendar that had to be opened in the exact right order, which I never figured out. Or at least, not before she stopped texting and calling. It just fizzled like soda that's been left out too long because I let my own second-guessing zap my carbonation.

Luckily there are a few people who can remind me that I'm not flat. Justine, for one. My parents and sister, who will happily recount any number of grievances from my childhood, like the time I wanted to open a summer camp for the neighborhood kids in our back yard and was one step away from ordering port-o-potties to be delivered before they intervened. Or the time I fed a jar of Jelly Beans to the vacuum cleaner. Stuff like that reminds me of my bubbles.

Few things in life are inevitable. The clothes I put on in the morning are not part of some pre-destined plan the universe has for me. The fact that I got a C- on my latest neuroscience paper doesn't mean women have no place in science. And the fact that I'm twenty-five, single, and haven't gotten laid in a year doesn't mean I'll end up alone.

Few things are inevitable, but there are some things that can't be avoided no matter how hard we try.

* * *

I knew nothing about Dr. Turner except that he was smart and handsome. Like, movie star handsome. He was clean-cut with a hint of a five-o'clock shadow on his strong jaw line. He mesmerized the rows of neuroscience grad students with his poise and knowledge on the day he guest lectured. So when he happened to be the only other person in the elevator with me after class, I racked my brain for something friendly to say. I'd have to be painfully shy or a bumbling idiot not to at least try to talk to him. I don't think I'm either of those things.

"That was a great lecture, Dr. Turner."

It wasn't the most creative thing to say, but it worked.

He bobbed his head once, hands folded around the handle of his briefcase in front of him. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."

"The rest of the class did too. They don't sit up as straight or pay as close attention to the regular professor."

"I think people are just more polite to a guest lecturer," he said with a dismissive smile.

I shrugged. If he didn't want to talk, I couldn't make him. Compliments aren't open topics, anyway. I probably should have thought of something more engaging.

As we rode down in silence, I noticed some chalk on his shoulder. "You have some… some dust on your jacket," I stammered, gingerly brushing his shoulder.

Dr. Turner looked at his shoulder and finished dusting it off.

"Thank you," he said. He flashed me a smile as the bell dinged, signaling we had reached the ground floor. He gave me a polite nod before stepping out into the foyer of the building.

I saw something flutter from his pocket.

"Dr. Turner," I called after him. "You dropped something."

Dr. Turner turned around as I bent to pick up a twenty-dollar bill. I looked at him through my lashes as I stood up and offered the bill to him.

"Thank you," he said contemplating me in the different light of the building lobby. "Most people wouldn't be so honest."

I shrugged, still holding out the twenty. "It's not my money."

Dr. Turner studied my face for a moment before taking the money from my hand.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name earlier."

"Brittany."

He nodded, squinting for a moment as he studied me.

"Would you like to have a drink with me tomorrow night?"

I could feel my face grow warm and I was sure I was blushing a little. I had not expected him to ask me out. That was pretty much the best reaction I could have hoped for. I tried not to seem too eager as I smiled. "Sure."

He bobbed his head, holding up his phone with an expectant smile. I realized he wanted my number, so I recited it dutifully. When he was done programming it in, he folded it back into his pocket and left without saying anything else.

When I got back to my apartment that night, I was bursting to tell Justine. I dropped my messenger bag with my textbooks by the door and rushed over the to the couch where she sat tossing popcorn in her mouth as she watched something on the History Channel.

"Guess what," I said in an excited, low voice.

"You finally agreed to go out with one of your classmates," she mocked.

"Better," I grinned. "Our guest lecturer in Neurogenetics asked me out."

That got Justine's attention. She tore her eyes from what looked like footage of an railway construction on the screen. "For serious?" she asked, scrunching her nose in disbelief.

"Real Housewives serious," I said.

Justine rolled her eyes. If there was one thing that she couldn't stand, it was reality television. She was always telling me about the latest thing she'd heard on NPR or the awesome new co-op we should check out a few blocks away. She wore acid-wash jeans over her curvy hips, and trendy t-shirts with names of bands I had never heard of, but felt, by association with Justine, I should. She had no appreciation for _Housewives_, so I was restricted to watching in my room on my laptop or waiting until she went to Santa Cruz for the weekend to watch in the living room.

I told her about my date and she was pleasantly surprised that I was trading in the yoga pants and fuzzy socks that were my usual Saturday night outfit for a pair of skinny jeans and a blouse she made me buy last year.

The following morning I woke early and went for my usual run around the neighborhood. Aside from a few other joggers, of which this city has no shortage, the rest of Telegraph Hill was still sleeping as I made my usual jogging rounds. When I returned home, I got a text from Dr. Turner:

_Sorry, but I have to postpone tonight. Can we reschedule for next weekend?_

I tried to sound upbeat as I assured him we could, and went about the rest of my weekend as though I wasn't disappointed he had canceled on me.

I started to worry when I hadn't heard from him by the following Friday. Was he just giving me the brushoff but was too much of a coward to cancel outright? I didn't want him to get away with that. Maybe if I pretended I had other offers, he'd feel like he couldn't string me along and would duck out gracefully. I sent him a message.

_Hey, are we still on for tomorrow night?_

A few minutes later, his reply came. _Sure. Text me your address and I'll pick you up at 8._

It wasn't encouraging, but I wasn't ready to give up on the possibility of going out with him.

The following night, Dr. Turner was fifteen minutes late picking me up. I had changed out of the jeans and blouse I'd picked out into a pencil skirt and different blouse. I added a bracelet my high school boyfriend gave me and put on a little extra eye makeup. Not too forced, but it looked like I'd made the right amount of effort. I smoothed over my skirt, wondering if it made my stomach look strange. But before I could decide, I heard a knock at the door. My stomach fluttered with nerves, and I went to answer it.

"Hi," I said with a bright smile.

Dr. Turner didn't look any different than he did during lecture. But work clothes and date clothes are the same for men sometimes. Not for girls.

He smiled back at me, but kept his hands in the pockets of his slacks. "Ready to go?" he asked.

I kept my nervous smile plastered on my face and nodded, turning to pick up my purse. I thought about inviting him in for a drink, but my place was pretty small and Justine hadn't done the dishes in a few days even though it was her month. Plus, even though Dr. Turner was a professor, he could still be a psycho, so it was best to stay in public until I knew he wasn't crazy.

We went to a restaurant in the Castro. I asked about his PhD studies and what his dissertation had been about. He talked a lot, looking around him distractedly. It felt like watching one of those reality dating shows where the contestants are poorly matched. One is disinterested, yet the other works hard, picking up all the slack, feeling foolish for making an effort because he or she knows the audience is cringing at everything about the date.

So I just gave up. Dr. Turner wasn't interested in me, and that was just going to be that. I stopped talking, looking around the restaurant to decipher what was more interesting than my recount of my family vacation through Yellowstone, which he had asked about in the first place. I imagined the agile way Justine would roll her eyes when I told her what a snooze he was and felt a little better about myself.

"Don't waste your time with that crap," she would say. "Find someone who hangs on your every word and let them swing."

It was easier to let the conversation drop when I imagined Justine giving her approval to do so.

So I started commenting on the things around the room, not caring if Dr. Turner had the decency to comment back.

There were several pieces of art and a few fashionable young couples around us, but nothing remarkable. The most interesting thing in the room was the bar, where a man in a white shirt and black vest was mixing and pouring drinks. Any drink someone ordered, he knew how to make from memory.

I wondered how he kept track of all the different combinations; how did he know a Manhattan from a Cosmo? A mai tai from a mojito? Were they filed in some kind of savant Rolodex in his mind, or had he been doing this for so long, they were second nature?

"Bartending must be really interesting," I mused. "I think I'd like to do that."

For some reason, that got Dr. Turner's attention. "Bartending?"

"Yeah," I shrugged.

A curious smile spread across his face, as though it was the most amusing thing he'd heard all day. "Go for it," he said, gesturing with his hand.

"You think?" I said, surprised at his enthusiasm.

He gave a nod that was deeper than I expected. "I did it in grad school. Good way to pay off loans," he said, leaning back and putting his hands behind his head. "I know tuition's not cheap."

I bit the corner of my lip, unsure. "I was hoping to get a job in the field," I admitted.

Dr. Turner shook his head. "Market's no good right now," he said. "You'd be counting caterpillars."

I didn't know how to respond to that. I don't even remember if I did. But when I went home that night, I started looking up drink recipes. By the time I deleted Dr. Turner's number from my phone after a few weeks of no contact from him, I had a job slinging beers at a pub a few blocks away.

A few months later I finished graduate school. I had a Master's in neuroscience, which I always imagined I would know exactly what to do with. Now my diploma seemed to taunt me, leaning out a centimeter from the wall in its gilded frame, reminding me that I invested two years and thousands of dollars and sleepless nights to be where I was.

It might have felt like an achievement if I had known _where_ exactly I was.

I put off telling my sister about my bartending job as long as I could without being an asshole. She's not that bad, but I never hang up from our conversations feeling good about myself. She never puts me down directly. Like most girls, she's more indirect. There's either a hint of sarcasm in her questions and comments, or she smiles too much to be genuine.

But I knew I had to call Kimi back eventually. I waited until Justine got home, so she could get me out of a painful conversation by yelling that something was smoking in the kitchen if I gave her our "help me" signal of wiggling my nose like the lady in _Bewitched_.

I sat crosslegged on my bed, facing the wall. As the phone rang, I traced the edges of the pictures I had taped up, wishing the San Francisco humidity didn't curl the edges, necessitating they be taped in all four corners if I didn't want them to look sloppy like a dorm room. My room is kind of like a dorm room. It's small and overly decorated. I keep it neat, though. There's just a lot of stuff.

I was hoping Kimi wouldn't pick up, but we had a date to talk, and she never misses scheduled things.

"Hey, B," she said. When she was younger, it sounded more like a chirp, but now it sounded more rushed and businesslike. I could almost imagine her in her black or grey suit, powerwalking down a street in New York. Everything Kimi does feels like she's powerwalking. She could be weeding a garden or taking out the trash or painting a picture, and I would still feel like she was powerwalking in some way.

"Hey, Kimi," I said, trying not to sound weary, but failing. "How are you?"

"Busy, stressed, and loving every minute of it," she said. Something in her voice sounded distracted, and I pictured her holding her arm up to hail a cab.

"How's the market this week?" I asked. It was an obligatory question, since I neither cared nor would I understand her response.

"It can't decide which way it wants to go," Kimi muttered. "Kind of like you." She giggled, trying to be lighthearted, but I couldn't help but feel patronized. Just because I've dated guys and girls doesn't mean I haven't made up my mind.

"Yeah, well. One of these days you'll see that's the only way to be," I said, forcing cheer into my voice, hoping it would warn her off bringing up my dating history.

She has a lot of judgment about the people I've dated, but for no particular reason. None of them were crazy or deceitful. Just because she has a perfect Wall Street boyfriend in a Wall Street suit with a Wall Street paycheck doesn't mean she knows everything. But she sure acts like she does.

"How's the job search?" she asked.

I cringed. I knew she was going to ask. But I still hated the question. She'd started asking about my job search in September, which was way too much pressure for me. At the time I was still nine months away graduating and didn't have the energy to put into a job search. Or the desire, frankly. But I'd swatted the question away too many times for her not to be suspicious.

Still, I tried one more time. "You worry about me too much," I said, making my words high like I was smiling.

"Yeah, well, someone needs to."

There was a pause because I didn't know what to say. So I changed the subject. "How's your place? You said you moved out of the Village and into SoHo?"

"You're avoiding my question."

I sighed. I was going to have to tell her. "I have a job."

"That's great, Britt!" Kimi chirped in surprise. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you're going to give me crap about it and I don't want to hear it."

Kimi seemed taken aback by that. She paused before saying, "I wouldn't give you crap."

I rolled my eyes. Of course she would.

"You can tell me. Is it bean counting or something?"

"I'm bartending."

There was a moment of stunned silence before she said, "Oh." She must have realized she reacted exactly as I predicted she would act, because she tried to cover quickly. "That's - that's not so bad, right? It's fun? I bet you make lots of money in tips. And you don't have to work with nerds."

"Hey, I'm a nerd," I said, smiling to try to lighten up the conversation.

"Yeah, but I meant like the computer science type nerds. So, uh, what kind of bar? Like a cocktail bar?"

"It's a pub," I said. "O'Reilly's."

"Cool!" she said. But the word felt too tight, like she was forcing herself to be enthusiastic about my chosen profession. "So what, uh, what made you take that job?"

"I dunno," I said, shrugging. I was forcing myself to act casual so she would get the hint and stay casual too. "I figured I needed a break from academia. I've been going to school nonstop since I was four, so..."

The rest of the conversation meandered on, feeling more like an exchange of the insignificances in our lives. We were talking, which is something sisters should do. When it was over, I was immensely relieved. I could tell my dad we'd talked, and he'd be happy.

After six months at O'Reilly's, I decided to expand my horizons. The pub was fun, but there was a lot of football and a frat boys and awkward flirting that made me cringe. In an effort to find the perfect work environment, I walked around the Castro, seeing if the atmosphere was more to my liking. It turned out it was, and a week later, I was hustling behind the bar of a bona fide San Francisco gay bar.

It was about ten o'clock one night when things started getting hectic. If the crowd around the bar didn't indicate it, the nerves of Dave, my favorite coworker, certainly did. He was usually a pillar of ease and good humor, but when he started bustling around, I knew we were busy.

"Where the hell is Abby?" he yelled over the noise of the jukebox.

Jules' still had a jukebox, one of the things I had loved about the place at first, but now detested, as there were many songs that were predictably overplayed. I had yet to get through a shift without at least two Journey songs blasting through the bar. Prince and Michael Jackson and Madonna were also mainstays.

Soon my face hurt from smiling at the customers as I poured beer and mixed drinks. The bar was famous for our extra-strong Long Island iced teas, which I liked making. I could do it in my sleep, choreographed perfectly with flicks of my wrist and a flirtatious-but-nonthreatening smile at the customer. Then I'd flip a flimsy napkin onto the damp bar and set the plastic cup down before poking a straw into the ice and telling the customer how much of their hard-earned money they'd have to part with for the opportunity to drink the concoction that got nine out of ten girls drunk by the time they finished the drink. Compared to the equivalent four or five beers she'd have to consume, it was probably the best deal in the house.

When a slight lull in the crowd happened, around midnight, Dave gave me a friendly nod.

"How're you doing tonight?"

Dave was sweet and nonthreatening, despite his burly stature. Inside he was a teddy bear. I was always glad to work with him, because I had seen him break up a few brawls and knew he would be able to keep things under control and protect me should the need arise. Not that I liked thinking like that. I don't like depending on men for my protection. But at the end of the night, I tried not to have a problem with Dave staying until we locked up. It just felt better. And to top things off, Dave was harmless in other ways too. Like most of our customers, Dave was so gay, when I wore my "boob shirt," he commented on how well the color went with my skin tone.

"Not too bad," I smiled, pouring a vodka tonic without looking.

"You never do too bad," he said with an amused grin.

I gave him a knowing smile in return and studied him, noticing he was more clean-shaven and primped than usual.

"You're looking sharp yourself. Someone special here tonight?" I teased.

Dave blushed as he picked up a tray of dirty glasses. "No. But I'm meeting up with someone afterwards."

I made a mock wolf-whistle at him and he flushed deeper pink. I studied him as he loaded the tray into the wash, avoiding eye contact. I set the drink in front of the customer and took their card to start a tab.

"You like this one, don't you?" I said, delighted to see Dave so flustered.

He ran a hand over his gelled hair and tried to bite back a grin.

It warmed my heart to see him so happy over a guy for once. "Well when it's time, bring him around so I can vet him," I said, giving Dave a playful punch.

He rubbed his arm and grinned wider. "'Kay."

I turned back to a pack of hairless, preened young men who were crowding the bar, elbows resting on the woodstained counter to claim their territory. I didn't know who had been there the longest, but I went with the one who looked least like an asshole. "What can I get you?" I shouted over the music.

"Appletini," he said, holding up a peace sign. "Two."

I nodded and ducked to get two glasses from under the counter. I kept my gaze down as I selected the bottles and mixers I would need, thinking that maybe Dave and I could start a bet about how many appletinis we would sell that night. It would be a lot. The charming, arrogant gay boys of San Francisco seemed to love them.

Don't get me wrong, I love the patrons at Jules'. But there's no denying that in their world, there is a pecking order. As a tall, blonde, white girl, I wasn't even on their radar, which they made sure to remind me of regularly.

Over the hypnotic thumping of Rihanna's _Pour It Up_, I turned back to the counter, asking the next "homo-lemming", as Dave called the perfectly chiseled, GQ type of men that frequented the bar, what he wanted to drink. The customer ordered a Shirley Temple and I smiled at him. There were a decent number of men who came in and never drank alcohol. I don't know if they were sober, but I admired that their abstinence from booze didn't curtail their partying.

I mixed a Shirley Temple and scanned the crowd to see if any of the regulars were around. Chad was my least favorite patron, a orangey-tan man, about six feet tall, who wore too much gold jewelry and had his teeth bleached until they glowed almost blue. He rarely tipped me, and I'd overheard a particularly graphic account of his most recent anal bleaching experience one time. Not that that was an anomaly; I'd heard just about everything under the sun, from fist-shaped dildoes to cum fetishists to a young man who claimed to have banged Lance Bass once. But Chad just annoyed the hell out of me, and further adding to my annoyance was the fact that he always seemed to have a harem of loyal gay boys around him. It wasn't Chad's preoccupation with his appearance that made him undesirable. It was just that there were so many more deserving people. People like Dave.

Relieved to not see Chad and his harem, I glanced over at the dance floor. I saw a flash of pink feather boa. That wasn't unusual. But I noticed quite a few of them, and when a rhinestoned tiara caught the light, I realized it was a bachelorette party.

That meant good news for the bar, but bad news for tips. My boob shirt didn't work on the bachelorettes that came into the bar to party with the gay boys, as though a gay bar were the most exciting thing on earth. Now, working in the gay bar was far more fun than working in a dive and watching the painful mating behaviors of women who felt they were approaching spinsterhood and men who didn't give them the time of day. Sadder still were the men who crawled after the girls, yet didn't receive a passing glance. Somehow, watching the chiseled hierarchy of the gay bar scene felt less painful. Everyone got attention somewhere. And even if I was low on the totem pole, plenty of men would talk fashion or music with me if things were slow.

The bachelorette party must have been the ones responsible when Journey came blasting over the jukebox speakers. I groaned, but the shrieks and increased animation from the dance floor confirmed my assumption. What is it with girls and Journey?

I finished printing someone's bill and lay it on the bar for the customer to sign. I put my hands on my hips, feeling the bar apron slung low and secure, and gave my practiced and impersonal smile to the next customer.

Holy god. She was beautiful. Her hair was silky and shiny and not a single black strand was out of place. Her skin was flawless and glowing and her cheeks were so round and smooth, they looked airbrushed. Long, painted lashes hung over dark, shiny eyes and a straight little nose. And below that... lips. Perfect, pillowy lips that were stained to perfection with what had to be the luckiest lipstick on earth.

I was glad my smile was already in place because now I couldn't move.

"Two long islands," the girl said, a folded twenty poking out from between two manicured nails.

I was able to look away and regain my bearings. I found the plastic cups. I found the rum. I found the gin and tequila. I found the vodka and triple sec. I scooped ice into the cups. I poured everything together and stuck a wedge of lemon on the rim of each cup. I had made it.

As I reached for two of the flimsy napkins, I decided I needed to say something or look like an idiot. What could I say? Something neutral but friendly. Nothing weird like usual. Without thinking too hard, I heard myself say, "Who's the other one for?"

The girl smiled and I felt my insides melt like warm butter. It was the most beautiful smile I'd ever seen, revealing little china-white teeth. "They're both for friends. I'm driving. Someone has to look out for the bride."

I nodded, staring blankly at the beauty before me. When the girl didn't move to take her drinks, I asked, "Who's the bride?"

She twisted around, craning her neck and standing on her tiptoes to see over the crowd. "The one with the white boa and the extra-god-awful tiara."

It lifted up to view the girl in question. "She looks young," I said, frowning. It was true, the bride didn't look older than twenty.

"I know," the girl said, rolling her eyes.

I gave her a blank nod of unthoughtful agreement, frozen again.

After a second, the girl flicked her wrist an inch, bouncing the twenty-dollar bill towards me. "Do you want this or are these free tonight?"

I shook my head, eyes widening at my own stupidity. I had heard of tragically beautiful people, but not people who made me feel this dumb. I had a Master's in neuroscience, after all. I wasn't exactly stupid. But this girl just threw me.

I blushed and took the bill from the girl's hand, being careful to avoid touching her. If I touched her, she might turn to dust, the illusion shattered by my clumsiness. I didn't want that to happen.

I looked back over at the bride, who was falling onto a taller blonde girl.

"I feel like she's too young to drink, let alone get married," I commented.

I have a problem, you see, and that was that I either say too much or not enough. It was like the bar strainer in my brain didn't work quite right. It'd been run through the high temperature dishwasher too many times, and now it was warped, and everything came out lumpy or too runny.

Luckily the girl ordering didn't seem to mind my frankness. She seemed amused by it. "Oh, she is. On both counts, even though she's twenty five." She smiled, a little longer than most girls as she picked up the drinks. "Keep the change," she said, letting her gaze flit down to my cleavage for a moment before she turned back to her gaggle of drunk flamingo princesses.

Had I imagined that? Imagined those dark, shiny eyes swooping down my neckline into my shirt? The girl was so beautiful and so polished, she didn't seem like the type. Girls like her were usually attached to some scruffy hipster or startup entrepreneur, not ogling female bartenders at a fag bar.

I shook my head, trying to focus on serving the next customer. As my hands flipped and measured the alcohol in my thirtieth Long Island of the night, I arched up on my toes to see if I could spot the group of girls on the dance floor. I saw their feathers and plastic tiaras and a few faceless heads, but I didn't see the girl who had come up to order.

* * *

x

* * *

I was so preoccupied with my phone, I almost didn't notice that Dr. Turner happened to be the only other person in the elevator with me. He was brilliant, to say the least, and being in his presence inspired me. Part of not making mistakes in life was not letting opportunities pass you by, right? This had to be an opportunity of some sort.

As we sank towards the lobby, I was aware my time for conversation was running out. I racked my brain for something to say. "How did you become interested in neuroscience's role in attachment?" I said, opting for academic discussion, which was always safest.

Dr. Turner looked at me with a polite smile, though I doubt he recognized me from the lecture he'd just given. "When I was at Cal I connected with a professor who was doing some of the primary studies on neuroscience and attachment. I liked that it was uncharted territory and asked if I could help with his research, and it just went from there."

He was so suave and casual about it. I wanted him to keep talking.

"That must have been exciting. Your current work sounds fascinating, too. I liked that you gave focus to paternal attachment in your presentation; everyone focuses on the mother."

Dr. Turner flashed me a tight-lipped smile as the bell dinged, signaling we had reached the ground floor, and my opportunity to talk to him was over.

"Thank you." He gave me a polite nod before stepping out into the foyer of the building.

I saw something flutter from his pocket.

"Oh, Dr. Turner," I called. "You dropped something."

Dr. Turner turned around as I bent to pick up a twenty-dollar bill. I looked at him through my lashes as I stood up and offered the bill to him.

"Thank you," he said. "Most people wouldn't be so honest."

I shrugged, still holding out the twenty. "It's not my money."

Dr. Turner studied my face for a moment before taking the money from my hand. "Are you in your final semester here?"

I nodded.

"Do you have a plan for after graduation?"

"Not yet."

Dr. Turner reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, handing me his business card. My heart raced. "I have an opening in my lab for an assistant if you'd be interested in interviewing."

I could feel my face grow warm and I was sure I was blushing a little. "Sure... Yeah, definitely!"

Dr. Turner gave me another polite nod and turned to go, leaving me in a swirl of my own thoughts. Had that really just happened? Did a job opportunity with a painfully handsome man really fall into my lap like that?

I gushed to Justine about it over a bottle of red wine that night. "Justine, if I get this, it will take care of so much of my anxiety. I mean, if I have a _job_ job? That's just... amazing. And Dr. Turner is just... I can't even describe him. He's probably the sexiest scientist to walk the planet."

Justine smiled over the rim of her glass, patient with my adoration, and happy for me.

"Do you know anything about the company?" she asked.

I felt a pang of guilt when I had to admit that I didn't. I vowed to browse their website the next day and learn more about it. And I did. There was nothing striking or alarming about the company, so I moved forward. In hindsight, I probably should have Googled the company.

I called the number on Dr. Turner's business card on Monday. I was surprised that a woman answered the phone, but I shouldn't have been. Obviously Dr. Turner is a busy man, and his lab would have a receptionist. The receptionist scheduled me for an interview, using what could only be described as a fatigued drone of prompted script, and promptly hung up. Everything about our conversation contradicted my excitement. I was applying for a big-girl job, and everyone I knew would be proud of me if I got it.

The interview went at most interviews go. Dr. Turner and a balding man with wiry glasses and a bad haircut looked over my résumé and asked me generic questions about my strengths and areas for growth and career aspirations. The balding man asked how well I worked with others and what my preferred management style was. Afterwards Dr. Turner gave me a handshake and nod that told me nothing about the outcome. So a few days later when his assistant called and offered me the job, I was thrilled. My parents and friends and professors were proud of me, proclaiming they had always known I'd find something in my field right away. And for a few minutes, I was proud of myself too.

But working for Dr. Turner was tedious. I was doing tasks far below my education and training level. All day I ran statistics and double-checked data, which anyone with half a mathematical brain could have done. I didn't get to participate in any of the lab work, which made my title of Lab Assistant painfully ironic. I didn't even know the passcode to the laboratory section of the building. Since we used animal subjects for some of our studies, the codes could only be given out to people directly conducting the research, because we didn't want animal rights activists releasing the worms and rats and mice we housed in the lab and ruining millions of dollars and years of research. I wasn't thrilled about the fact that the company used animals for research, but I never saw the subjects themselves, so it was easier to forget about. Plus, I'd be lying if I said that studying worms bothered me. It didn't. If we'd had monkey or rabbits or something, I would have struggled more.

My sister kept reminding me that a job was a job, and I'd do more interesting things eventually. So I tied my hair in a bun every morning, not thinking too much about the slacks and blouses I wore under my lab coat, and spent the next twelve months filing and documenting and running reports for Dr. Turner. And it wouldn't have been bad, if I were a person who liked dull things. But the fact is that I dislike dull things intensely, and therefore dreaded the moment my alarm clock went off every morning. I dreaded doing my hair in the same style. And most of all, I dreaded having to see Dr. Turner's handsome face every day, knowing that he would never be interested in me.

Not that Dr. Turner wouldn't have liked me in some alternate universe where he dated smart, ambitious women. But he didn't. He was a confirmed bachelor, which I knew was code for gay or womanizer. And considering the way he looked at his secretary's ass, my bets were on the latter.

On the days when Dr. Turner's assistant was out, I was assigned to the phones. I dreaded it. No one with a Master's in neuroscience should be assigned to answer phones. And yet I was. I repeated my sister's words: it's a job, it's a job, it's a job. There was a future for me. Dr. Turner had great contacts. I had insurance and a 401k. I had everything that made me certifiably boring.

One day when I was assigned to answer phones, I decided to play a game of making up stories about all the people who called. I sometimes did that while I watched people at the mall. The first call of the day was from a research lab in Tucson, which I decided was researching a new, more efficient formula for making beef jerky. In reality it was a neuroscience company, and beef jerky would be irrelevant unless it was run by zombies. I was just bored out of my mind and found it amusing. The following call was from a man named Steve from the payroll service Dr. Turner's company used. I imagined Steve moonlighted as a go-go dancer, and that he sat in his office making go-go playlists in order to get through is days, and his greatest fear was being recognized by one of his coworkers. The third call of the day was from a woman who didn't identify herself with an organization, just introduced herself as Violet. Something about her voice sounded familiar to me, but I couldn't place it. It echoed through my head throughout the day, until finally my curiosity got the better of me, and I asked Dr. Turner.

But that proved to be a mistake, because no sooner has I said, "Dr. Turner? Who's Violet?"

He frowned and crossed his arms. "Why do you want to know?"

I realized I had overstepped, and made up an excuse. "Oh, uh, I lost the call slip and wanted to make sure her call got returned. So... yeah. She called."

Dr. Turner gave me a stiff nod and turned back to his computer. "Thank you."

I stood in the doorway until I realized he wasn't going to say anything more. I let out an inaudible sigh and went back to the front desk, flopping into the rotating chair, feeling it bounce under the weight of my boredom.

No sooner had the chair steadied from bouncing, then the intercom on my phone rasped on. "Brittany, could you come here for a moment?" Dr. Turner asked.

I flushed cold, wondering if my offense had been bigger than I thought. But when I walked into his office a moment later, he handed me a slip of paper without making eye contact.

"Give that woman a call. Tell her you'll do the interview."

"What interview?" I asked, frowning.

"She wants to interview someone from the lab. You'll do."

I tried to brush off Dr. Turner's minimizing "you'll do" as I went back to my desk. I looked at the paper. On it was a woman's name and a phone number.

A few days later, I arrived ten minutes early at the coffee shop where Santana Lopez of _The Chronicle_ and I had planned to meet. Arriving ten minutes early was fifteen minutes out of character for me. In college I had resigned myself to the fact that I was one of those people who was always running five minutes late, ten on a bad day. I tried not to feel guilty about it, because I knew it was because I was always trying to squeeze things in at the last minute. Of course I could reply to one more email before I had to leave. I had time to change my earrings and my shoes. I had time to slice up an apple and pack it in my purse for lunch. I was always fitting last-minute things into my day, and the result was that I was always a few minutes late. So the fact that I arrived ten minutes early to meet Ms. Lopez was strange. I felt good, but also bad, as though I were misrepresenting myself to this woman.

When she arrived three minutes late, I was stunned by how beautiful she was. Her hair was perfectly pulled back into a bun and her makeup was impeccable. Her blouse was perfectly starched and her pencil skirt looked like it had been tailored to her body. She was younger than I thought she would be. Suddenly I was intimidated. What would I have to say that would be interesting to this sophisticated lady?

She looked around the coffee shop for a moment before I raised my hand. When she reached the table, I heard myself blurting, "Don't worry, I'm a five-minutes-late person too."

She looked confused, but took a seat. "I didn't think I was late."

"You're not!" I said, a bit too enthusiastically to sound convincing.

She looked at the clock on the wall and nodded.

Then we sat in silence. I realized I should have spent my thirteen minutes waiting thinking of things to talk about, because this was downright embarrassing.

She reached into her bag and pulling out a long, narrow recording device. She placed it on the table without ceremony and turned it on. "So, Miss Pierce, would you state your job for me?"

I was taken aback by the lack of introduction on Santana's part. Weren't we supposed to talk about what I was going to say? The direction of the article? I was caught off guard. "I'm an assistant at Turner Research Institute," I said.

"And how did you get into that?" she asked.

It was a dry question with an even dryer answer. I'd liked neuroscience in college and decided to get a Master's in it because I didn't have a plan for after college. It was the answer I'd given at every social gathering I'd attended for the last three years and I was tired of it. So this time I answered the question differently.

"I was in an elevator and I said the right thing," I responded.

She looked up for the first time in our conversation. "Said the right thing?" she repeated. "To whom?"

"To my professor."

"Okay..." she said, looking down at her notes again with a shake of her head. "What would you say is the most exciting part of your job?"

In all honesty, I wanted to say payday. It was the day I paid off my credit card and picked up a gourmet salad for lunch instead of my prepacked sandwich or leftover lasagna. But that, again, was a boring answer. So I decided to play nice.

"Probably this interview," I said.

She looked up at me again. She paused, as if she wanted to ask more questions, but in the end she stuck to her original script. "Can you give me some insight into what it's like to be a woman in a male-dominated field?"

I tried not to roll my eyes at the question. "No better than you can."

She took her notes out of her lap, tossing them on the table in frustration. She didn't like the game I was playing. "Do you want to do this interview or not?"

I hadn't realized I'd be so bristly. "I do. But it seems like these questions are something I could have answered over email." I paused, taking a risk. "Do _you_ want to do this interview?"

She bit her lip, looking at the recording device and its flashing red light. After a moment she clicked it off and lowered her voice from her journalistic façade. "Look, I get it," she said. "I know these interest pieces suck. I was assigned to this column because I'm a woman and the newspaper is doing a feature on sexism in the workplace. So please... just answer the questions so we can get out of here."

I was surprised by her candidness. Although she was still bristly, she was at least honest. That made me like her more than I expected.

"Okay. Let's try again," I said, nodding towards the recording device.

She gave me a relieved sigh and clicked it on. "So Miss Pierce, what's it like to be a woman in a male-dominated field?"

I thought for a second before I began to speak.

"When most people ask this question, they want to hear one of two things: that it's not a big deal and I'm just doing what I love, or that I've hit the glass ceiling and will spend the rest of my life pushing against it. But neither of those scenarios is interesting. Being a woman in my field is no different than being a woman in most fields. The strangest thing to me is when someone gives me a pat on the back for the kind of work I do, as if I'm somehow genetically different than other women for liking science. It's like having a vagina precludes me from liking certain things."

She smiled at my genuine response. "Do you get asked that a lot?"

"If having a vagina precludes me from liking things?"

She shook her head, trying not to laugh. "No, do you get asked how it is to be a woman in a male-dominated field often?"

"Oh. Yeah. Mostly women who want to engage in a deep socio-political discussion when I'm trying to enjoy a drink or a day in the park."

Her smile bloomed across her face. She clicked the recorder off and leaned forward.

"You're very pretty," she said, her words warm and hushed, as though it was a tasty secret.

I looked at the floor in discomfort. I never did know how to take compliments, especially sudden ones like this.

"Are you seeing anyone?"

I shook my head, trying to keep my shoulders from crumpling as I thought of Dr. Turner and his sexy swirling lab coat and how he never gave me more than stiff nod, and on Friday, he'd wish me a nice weekend. That was the closest thing I had to a boyfriend, which Justine told me was an absolute crime. I was in my prime, physically and sexually, and according to Justine, I was wallowing it away lusting after Dr. Turner, who thought I was as interesting as upholstery swatches.

It's funny, how other people's views of us inform us of who we are. Perhaps if I had been in a different job surrounded by different people, I would have seen myself differently. But I thought of myself as a carpet swatch, and a beige one at that. Beige without an interesting texture. Something that would compliment a nice piece of art or distract from the dirt. Purely functional, never decorative or exciting. Just like my underwear: plain cotton, white, nude, or black.

Suddenly, something behind the register crashed and shattered, the tinkling of broken glass echoing through the coffee shop. Everyone around us froze for a moment as the typically lackadaisical employees with their dreads and gauged orifices spun into a frenzy trying to clean up whatever had fallen. _That doesn't go there!_ someone shouted furiously from behind a swinging door.

Ms. Lopez and I clapped our hands over our mouths, stifling laughter. Something about the suddenness of the crash, followed by the exclamation that whatever had broken had obviously been improperly placed, was hysterical. We shook with laughter for a few moments before we both settled.

Santana watched me for a moment longer before she said, "Would you like to have coffee some time? Without this," she said, nodding towards the recording device.

I found myself nodding. Not because I had actively contemplated seeing her again, but because she had that kind of command over me. She wasn't manipulative or threatening. She was merely confident and easy to go along with because she knew what she was doing.

She looked positively delighted, as if she didn't know the power she had over people. "Wonderful," she said, reaching into her purse to pull out her phone. "Can I get your cell number? I don't want to call you at work."

I recited the digits automatically, watching her manicured fingers transfer them into her phone. When she was done, she pressed a button and held the phone to her ear. After a few seconds, I startled when I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I felt stupid. I should have expected that. I shifted awkwardly to take out my phone, seeing the number with the 210 area code. I slid the call open and, looking her in the eyes, said, "Hello?"

She giggled and brought the phone away from her ear. "Now you have mine." She bent to pick up her purse strap, and I supposed we were done for the time being. "I'll call you soon," she said. "And I'll email you a copy of the article before it's published."

I nodded, wondering what on earth I'd have to contribute to the article she was writing. I had no idea why I'd been picked for the article in the first place, or why she wanted to spend time with me again. But I was okay with all of it, because it broke up my drab life.

That night I went home and found Justine on the couch in her _Legalize Love_ tshirt, eating cruelty-free jellybeans.

"How was the interview?" she garbled, not taking her eyes off whatever documentary she was watching on PBS.

"It was _nice_," I said, realizing too late I put too much emphasis on the last word. It made me sound excited, although I supposed nothing about the interview had been interesting.

"Nice?" Justine asked, twisting to look at me.

I paused to take off my coat and hang it up before I offered, "I'm having coffee with the lady again."

"Oh yeah? More interview stuff?"

"No," I said. "Just to talk."

Justine seemed intrigued by my statement. "Is she hot?"

I frowned at Justine, but didn't answer the question.

"She's hot," Justine decided.

"So?" I said, defensive.

"So you should go for it," Justine said, wiggling her eyebrows. "Maybe if you brought your hot girlfriend to the office, Dr. Turner would notice and ask you for a ménage à trois."

I blushed crimson at the idea. "Justine, that's absurd."

"Guys like him dig lesbians."

"I'm not a lesbian."

"But Santana is."

I froze. "She is?"

Justine paused her chewing and gave me an amused expression.

I looked around, feeling as though I had missed something obvious.

"Oh, Britt..." Justine cooed, as though I were her daughter. "Are you ever going to learn to use Google?"

I ducked my head, feeling foolish.

"Have you read anything she's written?" Justine asked.

I shook my head, embarrassed.

"You should. She's good."

I bit my lips, afraid to ask. "Does she only interview lesbians?"

Justine burst out laughing. "Don't worry, she didn't trick you into liking pussy just because you sat for an interview."

The word _pussy_ made me cringe, but I tried not to show it. I'd briefly dated a girl in college, but that had been my rebellious phase, before I settled down into grad school and being responsible. I still found women attractive – Santana Lopez especially – but I had long since written off relationships with them. It hadn't happened for me in the past, and I always pictured my future with a man, when I pictured it at all. It was the easiest thing to fit into my life.

Seconds later I realized something: Santana Lopez and I had plans to go out for coffee this weekend.

I had inadvertently agreed to go on a date with her.

But then it dawned on me: if I went out with her, I wouldn't be beige. I wouldn't even be an upholstery swatch. And that thought appealed to me very much.

* * *

x

* * *

The carpet of the elevator was worn, completely threadbare in sections. I studied it, wondering how many times it had traveled up and down the shaft of the building. I almost didn't notice that Dr. Turner happened to be the only other person in the elevator with me. But once I did, I spun into action.

Wanting to hear his sexy, deep voice when he responded, I racked my brain for something to say.

"That was a great lecture Dr. Turner."

"Thank you."

I gave him a big smile. "The rest of the class enjoyed it too. They don't sit up as straight or pay as close attention to the regular professor."

"People are generally polite for guests," he said with a dismissive smile.

"I don't think that's what it was at all."

Dr. Turner flashed me a smile as the bell dinged, signaling we had reached the ground floor. I gave him a smile I realized was far too flirtatious for a student and professor, but it was over before I realized.

"Thank you." He gave me a polite nod before stepping out into the foyer of the building.

Thinking quickly, I stuck my hand in my pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. Bending over, I called after him. "Dr. Turner! You dropped something."

Dr. Turner turned around as I bent to pick up the bill. I looked up at him through my lashes as I stood up and offered it to him.

He contemplated it before taking it. "Most people wouldn't be so honest."

I shrugged, still holding out the twenty. "It's not my money."

Dr. Turner studied my face for a moment before taking the money from my hand. "Can I buy you a drink?

I shrugged with a smile. My plan had worked better than I thought. "Sure."

He smiled, the cat-like grin of a man who has gotten something he wanted. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

I thought about the whispers in the halls that had started after I'd gone out with Henry. How everyone in the program knew Brittany as the "easy" girl. I didn't want Dr. Turner to know that girl.

"Violet."

I have no idea why I picked that name, or why I didn't think what a bad idea it was to give a fake name to someone I was going on a date with. I just did it. Maybe it was because he made me feel like a new version of myself: someone powerful and in charge. I gave that person a name, and the only one I could think of at the time was Violet.

Dr. Turner took my number and we arranged to go out the following night.

He arrived at my apartment right on time and took me to a dive in the Castro. We had just been served our drinks when I felt him losing interest. When he was turned away, I surreptitiously unbuttoned the top of my blouse, knowing I had worn my best push-up bra. I leaned forward and made intense eye contact with him. For the rest of the meal, no matter if we were talking about neuroscience, baseball, or the weather, he didn't take his eyes off me.

When he invited me back to his place after, I decided to go with him. He was charming and handsome and, for most of the night, had been eying me as though I was a steak he wanted to eat. Now, being in a neuroscience program, I was used to that feeling. Most of my classmates were guys, and whenever I wore my tight-fitting yoga pants or a low-cut shirt, I got looked at a lot. Sometimes it was annoying, and sometimes it was flattering.

But my classmates were in the same boat I was in: homework, tests, loans, papers, and stress. Dr. Turner had moved past all of that. He was living the neuroscience dream. He owned his own research company, guest lectured at UCSF, and had money. It must be nice, to have money. I'd like to have some someday.

So when he invited me back to his place, I said yes. I wanted to see what my life could look like someday if I made it big like him. Was his furniture leather? Did he have framed art around his apartment? Did he have a walk-in closet with rows of perfectly starched shirts and shined loafers? I couldn't wait to see.

And of course, the promise of getting laid by someone who wasn't going to have leftover pizza for breakfast was pretty nice too.

His apartment was nice. Spacious, with large floor to ceiling windows on both sides overlooking Nob Hill. His bedroom was neat and clean, bordering on Spartan. But it worked for him. His bed was square and perfectly made. There was a single leather chair in the corner and a dresser with nothing on top. It was kind of Bond, to be honest. Minimalist, but so elegant. The hue of the wood was a deep burgundy, almost black. The room smelled clean and dark and sexy. I loved it.

"I'm really looking forward to this," Dr. Turner said with a slight quirk of his eyebrow. "You seem like a nice girl, Violet."

"Oh, I am," I said, giving him my best wicked grin.

"Hopefully not too good," he smirked.

"Only when I need to be," I flirted back.

"Do you want music or something?" he asked.

"Don't need any."

"How'd you get into this?" he asked, taking a seat in his chair and leaning down to remove his shoes.

I wasn't sure what he meant, but he was eying my waist, so I figured he was talking about my skirt or something. Feeling awkward, I made a Saturday Night Live reference. "Same as anyone. One leg at a time."

He sat up and gave me an amused smile. "All right, then," he said. "Care to show me what you've got?"

It wasn't exactly romantic. But I supposed it was better than playing a stupid game about when and how we were going to have sex. Obviously he wanted to, and it had been a long time since I'd gotten laid. I'd get to see him naked too, and if he wanted me to go first, that was fine by me. I knew I had a pretty rocking body.

I kept my playful smile on as I reached down, crossing my arms over my stomach to lift my shirt. I lifted it over my head, letting my hair bounce down onto my shoulders as I drew it away from my arms and locked my eyes with his again.

His grin grew wicked again and he leaned back.

I knew lots of men liked watching stripteases. I didn't mind watching them myself. My high school boyfriend loved to watch me undress, and had encouraged me to dance a little as I did. For his nineteenth birthday, I'd given him a lap dance while I stripped. It was sexy and playful and one of the best nights of our five-year relationship. I'd never stripped like that for anyone else. Damon was so sweet and respectful, he would never have asked me to strip again, even if he wanted me to.

But Dr. Turner was nothing like Damon. Clearly, since we were about to have sex on our first date, and he was asking me to give him a show. It was presumptuous of him, but I was proud I could deliver the goods. Hopefully he'd deliver in other areas in return.

I gave him a sexy smile as I found the zipper in my skirt and pulled it down, pressing my palms against my sides under the fabric as I slicked it down. I closed my eyes and imagined music playing, setting a rhythm.

Once my skirt was on the floor, I turned around and unsnapped my bra. It was a nice bra, though the cups were, shall we say, seriously enhanced. Not that there was anything wrong with that. But it was a little misleading, even if I was perfectly happy with the size of my tits. Most women under a D cup exaggerate anyway, just like most guys exaggerate the size of their packages. We're all trying to be bigger and better where it counts.

I dropped my bra on the ground and shimmied out of my panties. I was really glad I'd waxed recently. There's nothing worse than getting the opportunity to get laid and realizing you're not quite, um, prepared, and having to gracefully dodge the opportunity while keeping it open for the soonest possible rain check. But tonight was not one of those nights. I was going to get laid by the hottest professor I'd ever had.

I heard Dr. Turner rustling behind me and smiled to myself. He must have liked what he saw. I pumped my knees a few times, knowing it made my ass look amazing, especially in my heels, and then turned to see Dr. Turner leaning back with a lazy, fascinated smile on his face.

"Like what you see?" I asked flirtatiously

"I sure do," he mumbled. He licked his lips and tilted his head back before saying. "C'mere."

I walked over to him and bent over, letting my tits come near his face. "What did you have in mind?"

Dr. Turner looked my body up and down for a moment before saying, "Lie on the bed and touch yourself for me."

I was a bit surprised at that. He wasn't even going to kiss me?

Well, this night was different than most dates I'd been on already, so why not make sex different too? At least this way I could get myself warmed up and hopefully come before he did.

I turned back to his bed, noting its starched, square perfection, and feeling almost guilty as I sank onto it. I was messing it up.

But then again, nothing about sex is clean and square and poised. Sex is sweaty and unchoreographed. So I scooted back, taking a moment to kick off my heels, and gave him a playful scrunch of my nose as I fisted the sheets, ruining the placidness of the bed.

Then I spread my legs. The cool air felt good, and the way his eyes flew right to my center made me feel powerful. I had something he wanted, but he wanted me to tease him with it before anything else happened. Soon, Dr. Turner was hovering over me, slipping on a condom.

It wasn't any better or worse than sex usually was for me, which was disappointing, given that I'd worked my expectations up. Somehow I thought that sleeping with a professor, someone with a PhD and research lab, meant that the sex would be better than it had been when I slept with people my own age or achievement level. But Dr. Turner just pumped in and out, grunting, and closing his eyes most of the time.

I could only sigh in disappointment when he came before I did. I should have anticipated it and tried to make sure I got what I needed first. I could have asked him to do that thing with my nipples or rub my clit or something. I could have done more than lie there and pant beneath him, taking a few turns to ride on top. So when he came, I just sighed. That was that. It didn't occur to me to ask him to finish me or to take care of myself. It was just one of those things, and maybe if he wanted to see me again, it would be different. Hopefully.

So my first time with Dr. Turner wasn't very memorable. I was okay with that. I suppose most sex on the first date isn't memorable. I barely knew him, so there was no way I'd be able to know his body, or he mine.

But I distinctly remember what happened afterwards. He slipped out of me, pulling the condom off and knotting it, disappearing behind the wall that I assume concealed the bathroom. Then he came out and opened his dresser drawer, rummaging around for a moment. I lay on the bed, still on top of the white covers, breathing and looking at the ceiling, wondering why I'd gotten my expectations worked up and what I was doing here in the first place. Then he swaggered over the bed, having pulled on a pair of boxers, and tossed something next to my head.

"Thanks, doll. I'll give you a call soon."

I nodded, tilting my head to see what he'd tossed at me, but I couldn't see it because it was concealed by some of the duvet I'd made such a show of wrinkling. Without engaging in any more eye contact, Dr. Turner walked out of the room with that I-just-got-laid swagger, leaving me alone with my slowing breath and the stark quietness.

I propped myself up on my elbows so I could see what was next to me on the bed. When I saw the roll of crisp twenties, I was dumbstruck.

Dr. Turner had given me money.

Lots of money.

Dr. Turner had just paid me for sex.

Did he think I was…

No. There was no way.

Had I done or said something that made him think I was for hire?

I wracked my brain, thinking of all the things I had said and done that might have led him to believe I was interesting in something besides dating. Sex, sure, but being _paid_ for sex? That had never even crossed my mind.

Then I realized. Dr Turner had just paid me for sex.

Dr. Turner thought I was a prostitute.

I sat up, pulling my knees to my chest. What had I done? What kind of situation had I gotten myself into?

Where I came from in Michigan, only desperate women sold their bodies, and that was usually at a club with a pole and a DJ or in a dingy motel next to a Denny's or Waffle House. There were no folds of money tossed on nice sheets like this.

I felt so young and so naive, and mostly, so, so stupid. I closed my eyes and felt tears start to sting for a minute.

Dr. Turner had never been interested in dating me. He'd only wanted to sleep with me, and the whole going-out-for-a-drink-first had just been a pretense, to see if I was crazy or inclined towards prostitution or who knows what. It was degrading and horrible and I wanted to shrink into my own sweaty, dirty skin and hide.

But I wasn't going to cry in his house. I wasn't going to leave any more of my dignity here than I'd entered with. If I had to cry, I'd wait until I was home with the door to my room closed so Justine wouldn't see and ask too many questions.

But then I looked down at the money and got curious. How much did this pretentious asshole think I deserved for sleeping with him? Hopefully a decent amount. I looked at the money, still appalled, but also intrigued.

I had to know what I was worth.

I poked at the thick fold of twenties. It looked threatening, like a small animal playing dead until I was close enough to attack, when it would spear me with its razor claws and fangs. But it didn't spring to life. It rested against the sheets, lifeless.

I picked it up and started counting.

One hundred. Two hundred. Three hundred. Four hundred. Five hundred.

Five hundred dollars.

Holy shit.


	2. Casing

A/N: Hi everyone! I know people are drifting into the summer hiatus, but I hope people will check back in at fanfic world. I have some great stuff planned for these ladies and I love hearing from you all.

This chapter makes me want to shake Brittany a little bit at times, but hey, she's human. I'm interested to hear what you have to say about her lives and choices. Let me know!

Thanks so much to my beta JJ for helping me bring my vision into being.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Casing**

* * *

Saturdays were always crazy, and being down a bartender meant Dave and I were working ourselves into the ground trying to take orders and keep track of tabs. It was nice to make all that tip money, but it was still hard work. When we had five seconds to check in with each other, we bitched about Abby, saying we hoped she'd finally get fired for not showing up to work.

At two thirty a.m. I locked the front door, sighing as I turned back to the bar to finish wiping it down so I could go home.

"You good, Pierce?" Dave asked me, hastily untying his bar apron and stashing it under the bar with the dirty bar towels.

I shook myself out of my tiredness. I had forgotten Dave wanted to leave early. We had been so overwhelmed, I hadn't offered to let him leave as early as I'd planned to.

"Yeah," I said. "Go have fun. Tell Dreamboy hi for me."

Dave gave me a big, thankful smile.

"I owe you one," he said, taking his coat from under the bar. "I've got your back next time you want out early."

I gave him a tired smile and waved as he went out the back door.

I sighed, looking around. It wasn't much work, but I was so tired.

I was just about to head for the tables in the corner when a furious rapping came from the door behind me.

"We're closed," I called out, not bothering to mask how annoyed I was.

A muffled voice spoke from behind the door, and a few more knocks rang through the bar that now reverberated quiet in the absence of the jukebox and drunken laugher. My shoulders drooped. I just wanted to go home.

I opened the door just enough to say, "We're closed," and was pleasantly surprised to see the girl with long black hair from earlier that night, the DD of the bachelorette party.

"I'm so sorry," the girl said. "I just came to see if my friend left her purse here."

I looked her up and down, deciding it was safe to let her in the bar when I was there alone. If it had been a man, I wouldn't have opened the door at all.

"Sure, c'mon in," I said, opening the door wide enough for the girl to enter before locking it again behind her.

She gave me an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. It'll just be tricky for Tina to make her flight tomorrow if she doesn't have her ID."

"Of course," I said. I didn't mind helping this girl. "What does it look like?"

"It's green with a black leather strap."

I walked behind the bar to the area we usually kept lost and found items in. Seeing the purse the girl had described, I placed it on the counter.

"This it?"

She gave me a grateful, relieved smile. "Looks like it." She opened the purse and fished out the wallet, checking the ID. "Yup, this is Tina's."

I gave her a polite smile as I reached for the broom. "Glad you found it."

Santana checked the contents of the purse and then pulled out her phone, checking it as she leaned forward onto the damp bar. She made no motion to leave. Instead she watched as I made a few strokes on the floor with the broom before saying, "I'm Santana, by the way."

I looked up. "Brittany," I said.

"Pleasure to meet you, Brittany," Santana said. "Do you have to close up alone?"

"Usually Dave closes with me, but he had a hot date so I let him cut out early."

Santana nodded and still made no motion to leave, leaning over the bar to watch as I cleaned. When I looked up with a curious smile, she looked embarrassed. I figured she must have a reason for stalling.

"Having fun babysitting your drunk friends?" I asked with a wink.

Santana gave me a tired, frustrated smile. "I'm hoping they call it a night soon. Rachel found the karaoke bar around the corner and I'm too sober to sit through that shit."

I gave her a sympathetic chuckle. "Well don't tell my boss, but you're welcome to hang out here for a minute while I close up. I know better than anyone how annoying drunk people can be."

"Yeah, I'm not in a rush to get back to that trainwreck."

I giggled. "That bad, huh?"

Santana rolled her eyes, amused. "She's not horrible all the time. But..." she lowered her voice. "Well, a few of us have bets on how long this one's going to last."

I smirked, as though everyone made such sinister wagers about their friends. "What's wrong with the guy?"

Santana tilted her head, trying to figure out exactly what she didn't like about her friend's fiancé. "I don't trust guys who are that muscly, you know? Usually they're hiding something."

I giggled. I knew what Santana meant. "You mean like most of our customers here?"

Santana smiled. "Probably. This guy's straight, but it's like, doesn't he have better things to do with his free time besides lift weights? If I spent as much time working out as Brody does, I'd look like a mutant."

I laughed. "Some girls are into that."

Santana rolled her eyes. "If he feels the need to compensate for something by overdeveloping his chest, I guess no one can stop him. If only I could stop him from marrying Rachel..." she grumbled.

I stopped sweeping and studied her. She seemed oddly protective of her friend. "Do you have a thing for her?" I asked, daring to test the waters of her sexuality.

Santana looked offended. "Ew, no," she hissed. Then she followed it with. "She's not my type."

The quiet bar was tense for a moment and I wished that she would tell me what her type was so I would know if I had imagined her sweeping glance earlier. Was _I_ her type?

Before I could think of a way to explore the matter further, Santana adjusted herself on the barstool and asked, "Got any good stories from the bar?"

Although I was still confused about my interactions with her, I was relieved to move to a lighter subject. "One time Alec Baldwin came into a pub I was working at down the street and someone tried to punch him in the face," I said, making it as deadpan as possible to elicit the biggest response.

Santana laughed, amused and incredulous. "Really? Alec Baldwin?"

I nodded, proud my story had brightened Santana's expression. "Famous people need to get drunk too."

"Probably more than the rest of us."

There was an awkward pause and I was about to ask Santana what she did for a living when her phone buzzed.

Santana sighed and read the message. "Sweet," she said. "They took a cab back to the hotel when they couldn't find me, so I'm off duty. And thank _god_. I'm maxed out on their particular brand of freak."

I smiled at her. "Well congrats," I smiled. I liked this girl. She was funny and relatable, not to mention beautiful. Did I say she was beautiful before? She really was.

And yet there was something about her that was unaware of her beauty. That was what interested me the most. Of course, she knew she was pretty. But I don't think she knew that she was beautiful. People who aren't aware of such obvious things about themselves are fascinating.

"Can I offer you a drink?" I said.

I knew I wasn't supposed to, but Dave was gone and my boss wouldn't know.

Santana brightened. "Sure!" she said. "Got any scotch?"

I grinned and nodded. "Coming right up."

I pulled out a clean glass, wiped it down, and turned to the shelf behind me. "This didn't happen, by the way," I said as I looked over my shoulder and winked at Santana.

"What didn't happen?" Santana said with a coy smile.

"I was wondering the same thing," I volleyed back.

"I can't even remember where I am."

I stopped, eyes going wide in mock alarm. "It's not _absinthe_, Santana."

Santana laughed, a silent laugh that shook her chest as she leaned over the bar. "Are you having one too?"

I realized that it didn't make sense for me to offer Santana a drink if I wasn't partaking myself. I pulled out a second glass and poured us each a generous drink.

Santana grinned wider. I looked up mid-pour and it dawned on me that Santana was flirting with me. My stomach flipped in an excited tizzy. It had been a while since a girl had flirted with me. I usually had to seek girls out, even at the lesbian parties I went to on special theme nights in the Castro. But those were a drag. After begging Justine to go with me, promising to go to a straight club the following weekend and wingwoman for her, I always had to approach girls first, which I was too shy to do most of the time. Usually Justine and I danced for a little while and then went home.

I didn't know if Santana was flirting on purpose. Lots of girls flirt without meaning to, which is fun, but mostly frustrating. I hadn't had sex with a girl since college. It would be nice if I could have that experience again. But I didn't want to misread Santana's cues.

Santana picked up her drink, resting the rim of the glass against her lip for a minute as she looked at me. It was a sultry, flirtatious look that made my cheeks warm. I didn't think I could be as sexy in return, so I just gave an embarrassed smile and looked down into the contents of my drink before taking a big sip.

A really big sip.

Much bigger than I intended.

It was burning.

I was suddenly coughing and sputtering, alcohol having gone down the wrong tube in my throat. My whole chest was on fire, creeping up my throat into my mouth and face. Now I was hacking and Santana was leaning towards me in concern, asking if I was okay.

I was mortified. Bartenders are supposed to be able to handle our liquor. And here I was, coughing like a sixteen-year-old drinking cheap vodka out of a water bottle under the bleachers. Santana put her hand on my bicep in concern.

Definitely flirting.

Having recovered from my overwhelming coughing fit and the embarrassment that ensued, I drank the rest of my scotch slowly. I made sure I wasn't ahead of Santana as we made small talk about the bars in the neighborhood, good restaurants in the city, and other local treasures. I found out that Santana was a journalism student, and somehow that made her even more interesting. "What kind of journalism do you want to do?" I asked.

"Whatever the opposite of sports is," Santana said, finishing her glass and setting it down with a satisfied smile.

"Hm..." I said, trying to think of a clever response. "Gardening?"

"Yes, I hear there's a huge market for garden journalism."

"Hey, it's San Francisco!" I giggled. The city was peppered with empty city blocks and nooks between houses that had been reclaimed as community gardens.

There was a lull in the conversation as I finished my drink. I was really enjoying our conversation and found that my previous fatigue was nowhere to be seen.

"Are you driving tonight?" I asked, glancing between Santana and her empty glass. I wanted to refill it and thereby keep our conversation going, but not if she had to get behind the wheel.

"No, I live just a little ways away," Santana said with a flirtatious smile. "I don't have to drive annnnywhere." She drew the last word out as though it were the most delicious thing she'd tasted all night.

I grinned back and patted the bar. "Then can I offer you another drink?"

Santana quirked her eyebrow. She knew the game we were playing now. "Sure." The word was lower and promised something sweet.

I turned around and scanned the shelves behind me. I spotted my favorite, though I wasn't sure Santana would like it. "Do you like sweet liquors?"

"Mhmmm," Santana hummed.

"Okay. I love this one," I said, reaching to grab a bottle of Disaronno.

Santana watched as I took two clean glasses and poured them each a generous drink. I capped the bottle, spinning the square cap, and lifted my glass.

"Cheers," I said with a brief lift of my eyebrows.

Santana looked me square in the eye with a wicked smile as we clinked our glasses and took a drink.

I was pretty sure I had just bagged my first girl in five years.

An hour later, Santana was loose and her eyes were dark and she blinked slowly. Her mouth spread unevenly when she smiled, and there was a strand of hair that was out of place in her previously impeccable hairdo. She laughed too loud at things that weren't very funny, and when she spoke, her words were loud.

She was, in a word, drunk.

I wasn't much soberer as I struggled with the lock on the exterior of the bar, trying to make sure it was closed as we exited. Santana was spinning on the sidewalk, her little black purse and Tina's big green purse swinging around her knees.

"Which way are you?" Santana asked, laughing at nothing in particular.

"This way," I gestured with my chin, sticking my keys in my pocket and bracing my shoulders against the 3:30am chill.

"Oh good, me too!" Santana babbled. "I like when I have to go the same way as someone."

I walked quickly, trying not to grin like an idiot. We were both drunk, and yet we were still the playing as though we weren't thinking about asking each other back to our houses.

I decided to take the plunge and offer Santana another drink at my house. Justine was in Santa Cruz for the weekend, so we would have the place to ourselves. I was positively giddy at the thought.

"Hey want to-"

"Come to my place," Santana blurted in the middle of my sentence. "Come... have a drink with me. Another. I want you to see the view."

"Yeah?" I breathed in disbelief.

She looked at me with a wicked, lopsided smile. "Yeah."

* * *

x

* * *

On my way to the lab from the bus stop the Monday after Santana interviewed me for the Chronicle, I passed a "gentleman's club." I have to pass it every day, and I have yet to see anyone I would consider a gentleman walking in or out of its crusty, overpainted black door. I always look away, toward the secondhand shop across the street. They have a window display that changes every week and provides a much-needed target for my attention as I walk past the club.

I just can't fathom why anyone would want to go in there. I get that guys think stripping is hot. But going to a strip club is essentially paying a lot of money to be sexually frustrated for a few hours while you drink overpriced beer and sit in a chair that probably needs to be boiled in Lysol. I can sit in a clean chair at home and drink inexpensive beer and not have to pay anyone or watch anything to be sexually frustrated. And no one even needs to be exploited.

A few hours into my morning at Turner Institute, I was standing by the copier waiting for the collator to do its thing when Dr. Turner walked in. He always walked with his head up high, nose in the air like he owned the place. His confidence has always been the sexiest thing about him. I wish I could be that confident.

Dr. Turner looked at me. Directly at me, like he actually saw me. It was thrilling. My stomach flipped and I flushed.

"I didn't realize the copier was being used," he grumbled. He looked disappointed and annoyed. I didn't want him to be annoyed because then he might associate annoyance with me, which wouldn't be good. He wouldn't want to date me that way.

"I'm almost done. Just waiting for the collator. I'll make your copies for you if you like," I offered. I wanted him to see how helpful I can be.

Dr. Turner gave me a strained, professional smile. He stepped close to me and handed me the paper. I smelled his aftershave and Old Spice. It was such a sexy, masculine smell, woody and rich and clean.

"Fifty copies, double-sided," he said, waiting for me to take the paper.

I took it and relished the moment that piece of paper connected us. "Sure."

"Thanks, doll," he said.

As he turned to go, he reached down and patted my ass twice with a gentle hand. It happened so quickly, I didn't realize he'd actually touched me until he was gone.

Dr. Turner had touched me.

I was buzzing. Maybe he was actually seeing behind the white lab coat and the twist I had to keep my hair in. I started thinking about all the neuroreceptors that were going crazy in my brain, absorbing the chemicals that were released as a result of human touch.

Human touch is so powerful. I remember being mesmerized by the CAT scans of brains at rest when they sat in the MRI untouched, versus when someone held their hand. Human touch is amazing, and I'd just gotten to experience it unexpectedly with Dr. Turner. I felt the area he had touched freeze and tingle, excited and amazed like I felt the first time my high school boyfriend kissed me or groped me or...

The point is, it felt like another first. Dr. Turner could be a whole new set of firsts.

When I was in grad school, Justine said I was the only girl in a neuro program to not date, and if I put in the tiniest bit of effort, I could have gone out with a different boy every week. But I didn't want a different boy every week. I wanted Prince Charming to sweep me off my feet, to have an epic romance that would last forever and give me security. At that point in the conversation, Justine would be rolling her eyes with Olympic agility and huffing and puffing like she'd run a mile, unable to decide where to start with how deluded I was about relationships. But I don't think I'm deluded. I'm just romantic and smart, which is a hard combination to be. The neuro boys weren't romantic, though they were smart. I don't know what I really wanted. But I knew that as soon as I met Dr. Turner, I had it figured out.

But knowing what I wanted in the long term didn't help in terms of quieting my nerves about seeing Santana again. As promised, she texted me and we made plans to meet. I could have blown her off and avoided my anxiety about potentially leading her on, but I would have never heard the end of it from Justine if I had.

Over the next few days, I let my doubts eat away at me. Justine was no help. She seemed to route all conversations back to my upcoming date, even when I managed to forget about it for a few minutes. She would give me advice that was so ludicrous, I would blush, everything ranging from what to order to what to do with my tongue when I went down on Santana after our date. I started to resent her for her incessant chatter about my date with a girl, but I couldn't find the words to tell her to be quiet. Justine is Justine, and teasing me is part of what makes her who she is.

On the day of the date, I woke up too early. It was Saturday, my day to sleep in, but I jolted awake only half an hour after my workweek alarm would have gone off. I rolled over, pulling on a sleep mask to block out the light coming through the curtains, but I ended up just laying there in the synthetic darkness for an hour, feeling my stomach twist and flip with anxiety. Why had I agreed to go on this stupid date? My stomach felt both painfully empty and too full at the same time. I hoped I wasn't bloating. I didn't want to be bloated for my date.

And then there was the matter of what I should wear. Should I go West-coast casual? Fancy? Professional? I wished I didn't have a to make a decision.

I decided I would ask Justine to help me pick, but then decided that was a terrible idea. She'd find my raciest ego-booster bra and skankiest panties and declare that was all I needed. I didn't want to invite her to tease me any more. I was done squirming under her heat lamp.

I gave up trying to sleep and went to my closet. If I could figure out what I was going to wear, I wouldn't have to worry about it for the rest of the day. Then maybe my anxiety would go down and I'd be able to eat.

I looked through the blouses and slacks that I wore under my lab coat and felt myself starting to sink. These were all so boring. Drab and shapeless, they deserved to be covered up by a lab coat. I hated them all. I wanted to toss them out the window and hope a hobo would make a nest in them so I would have an excuse to buy new clothes.

My eyes fell onto my workout clothes. I knew I looked good in those. Justine had informed me, in one of her motivated, health-conscious surges, that having cute workout clothes would motivate me to work out more. I already had a workout regimen I had no problem sticking to, but I went with her to one of the hundreds of trendy workout gear shops that pepper the city and blew a few hundred dollars. It didn't motivate either of us to work out more. Justine almost never exercised, and I didn't start exercising more often than previously, but at least now I looked cute while I ran my standard circuit around several city blocks and a neighborhood park. I'm always comfortable in my workout gear, which these days, is probably the only time I feel comfortable.

Deciding to put off the decision between drab outfit number one and drab outfit number two, I slid into my running pants and my jogging bra. I'm not confident enough to run in that alone, but the t-shirts I've been running in lately are less baggy than they were a few years ago. I'm making progress, right? I put one on and grabbed my key, darting out the door before Justine woke up.

I ran my usual circuit twice that morning. I was hoping that the extra exercise would banish my nerves and I'd be able to spend the rest of the day and the entirety of my date in that blissful post-workout soreness and haze. If I could do that, I wouldn't notice my blunders, or if I did, could chalk them up to exhaustion. Working out was probably the only excuse Santana would be interested in for my tiredness because it meant I had something in common with her image-conscious, successful, ambitious caste. Santana was probably jogging somewhere in the city now too. She probably woke up every morning at six and ran a few miles before making herself a green smoothie, taking a few shots of espresso, and driving to work listening to NPR. She was an NPR person, wasn't she? Well, at least if there was a run-in between her and Justine, they'd have that in common.

I was almost back to my apartment when I spotted a little boutique that had opened a few months ago. It was somewhere I would never step into. What use did I have for boutique clothing, since everything I wore was covered by my lab coat? But today, after surveying the pitiful contents of my closet, I debated going in. I slowed from my jog, since I usually started my cooldown on the next block anyway. I peered in the window, seeing a few cute skirts and tops, and racks of heels and sandals. I wanted to go in, but of course, the boutique wouldn't be open on a Saturday at 8:45. I looked at the sign and saw that it would open in an hour and decided I would come back.

But then I wondered what the point was. It would be stupid to pay boutique prices for one date. What would I do with the outfit after? It's not like I could wear it to work, and if for some strange reason Santana wanted to see me again, I couldn't wear the same thing. So I found something mildly presentable and hoped it didn't look too forced.

I was so nervous by the time our coffee date rolled around, I almost bolted from the shop. When Santana walked in, everything seemed to speed up. I wasn't prepared. And I should have bought that stupid outfit.

We exchanged obligatory greetings, and she seemed warmer and more relaxed now that she was out of her business attire and wasn't recording our conversation. I liked her more. She seemed more like someone my age.

After we found a table and sat down, an excruciating few seconds of silence passed. I panicked, needing to fill them.

"So tell me about the stuff that's not on your business card."

Santana shifted in her seat as she leaned on the table between us. "Like what?"

"How did you end up in San Francisco?"

"Because," she said gesturing up with her palm, "it's the only place to be yourself."

I frowned, curious as to what she meant.

"When I was in journalism school, someone wrote on the wall of the bathroom nearest my Law and Ethics class, 'You go to New York to be important, L.A. to be famous, and San Francisco to be yourself.'" She smiled down at the table for a moment, then seemed to realize I was still there as she zipped back up. "Plus it's a better place for journalism than San Antonio."

"San Antonio," I said, seeming to contemplate the word like a piece of market cheese or a new goulash. "Is that where you're from?"

Santana nodded, tracing a line on the table with the edge of her palm. "Born and raised."

"Did you ride horses?"

"No."

"Oh." Santana's long, shiny hair looked regal like a horse's tail. "Your hair just made me think of it."

Santana frowned. "My hair?"

I realized how stupid that sounded and felt myself flush crimson. "Um, long and shiny like a prize mare or something. Sorry, that came out wrong. Your hair is great."

"It better be. I paid a lot of money for it."

I let out a nervous laugh. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee?"

Santana agreed and asked for me to order two extra shots in hers.

I stood in line, nervously bouncing on my feet, trying to think of things to talk about when I got back to the table. Santana's presence seemed to suck all the air out from around me and the clarity from my mind, and I got dizzy and started floating in a haze of beautiful near-death. If I didn't look at her, instead studying the calligraphed chalkboards over the counter, I could get my bearings.

The curlicue words above boasted the finest local organic vegan fair-trade gluten-free delights in the city, and I pondered for a moment what a shame it was to eat food without flavor or substance. I love vegetables as much as the next person, but nothing can substitute for a chocolate chip cookie with a glass of milk or a tuna melt when I'm feeling down. But to each her own.

As I placed my order for a cruelty-free mint cocoa and Santana's fair-trade organic espresso double-shot, I contemplated how I would feel if we swapped drinks. At first I'd feel energetic, but then I'd get shaky and flustered and would spend the entire afternoon pacing, feeling like something was about to jump out and scare the living daylights out of me. Kind of the way Santana made me feel. Then I'd crash in a heap of nervous exhaustion and swear that - once again - I was never drinking coffee again. I hoped that wasn't how Santana would feel.

"Don't you get nervous, drinking all that caffeine?" I asked, setting Santana's drink down.

"I'd get nervous if I didn't drink it," Santana said, hugging the cup between her hands, warming them against the July chill and seeming relieved to be in possession of such precious, pretentious coffee.

"Really?"

"I don't know, I've never gone without it," Santana said, taking her first sip. "This city runs on coffee. Every city does."

"I don't run on coffee."

Santana hummed. "That's a shame. You should try it sometime, see if you get inspired to leave that horrible job of yours."

Her comment felt like a slap in the face. Who was she, to criticize my job like that when she hardly knew me?

I shrank into my seat. Maybe this had been a terrible idea. Obviously Santana thought my life was pathetic. I wasn't sure I disagreed, but I was stunned that Santana thought she had a right to determine how pathetic my life was.

Santana took a sip of her drink, closing her eyes for a second to appreciate the rich, bitter taste of the pretentious coffee. After she swallowed, she looked up at me again and proceeded to ask polite questions. She asked me about my day and how my week had been, which was a boring thing to talk about for several reasons. Fueled by my humiliation, I answered politely before asking her the same questions in return. Her answers were more interesting, talking about a recent conflict with her editor that had finally been resolved over a box of donuts and a wager that involved him buying her a beer after work. Her work seemed to be a lot more interesting than mine. It sounded like she worked with interesting and quirky people. The only interesting person I worked with was Dr. Turner.

Oh, Dr. Turner...

I wondered what he was doing. He probably had a date tonight. He had dates all the time, right? I mean, he had to. He was too handsome and well-spoken and charming not to.

I wondered what kind of girl Dr. Turner dated, and the only thing I could come up with was that she was definitely not like me. She was probably more like... well, she was probably more like Santana. Beautiful and polished, everything from her nails to her manners to her résumé. She wore heels and lipstick and had a graceful laugh that wafted over the wine glasses and candles between them as they ate in trendy restaurants. I would never be that girl for Dr. Turner. But Santana could. Well, if she liked men, that is.

Our conversation meandered on. Even though we never ventured into anything too personal, Santana genuinely wanted to know about growing up in Michigan, and what had brought me to San Francisco, and where I was living and with whom. And even though everything about her made me feel foggy in the best way, I felt tension rising. Were we on a date? She wasn't acting like it. We were just talking like two people trying to become friends. But then again, I didn't know what it felt like to be on a date with a girl. The question built up tension like a bowstring in my stomach until it shot out of me.

"Are we on a date?" I blurted.

Santana blinked quickly, then let out a nervous giggle. "Um... I didn't think we were. Did you?"

Although the tension was finally gone, now I felt humiliated. Again. "I wasn't sure," I mumbled.

She looked at me, curious. "Do you date women?"

I shrugged, wishing I could disappear under the table. "I did in college."

She seemed intrigued, and leaned closer. "We have that in common, I guess," she said.

And then it struck me that Santana had never outed herself to me. Justine had been the one who planted the idea of this being a date in my head, and I had fabricated it with her. Santana was just having coffee with a girl she met through work.

Wanting to diffuse my humiliation, I asked her about college. She answered politely at first, but then paused and said, "I had a lot of fun with the ladies in college. What about you?" she asked.

I laughed nervously, breaking the eye contact that had suddenly become too intense for me.

"Oh, it was nothing," I said.

As I said it, I knew it sounded fake. Why was I lying to her? I never lie. Maybe I was trying to put up some kind of firewall between us that she couldn't cross. If I glossed over my forays into dating women, she would put me in that category of _"girls who have experimented and then gone back to men."_ Because that was the only way I understood my sexuality. If I didn't have that understanding, I would be in chaos.

Although I was looking away, I could feel Santana squinting. "I don't buy it," she said, trying to sound coy so she wouldn't be as threatening. "Everyone's first girl is a big deal, no matter what happens afterward."

She seemed to be giving me space to stay in _"college exploratory"_ category by saying "no matter what happens afterward." Afterward I had gone back to dating men, and I could use my experience to titillate them if I chose. Which, I realized shamefully, I had. I had dangled my faux-bisexuality in front of the men I'd dated, flirtatiously smiling as I intentionally let them think it might mean I was game for a threesome or some other adventure planted in their brains by the porn industry. I'd manipulated my own sexuality so they could be intrigued. This, Justine had informed me, was why lesbians hated bisexuals.

But I wasn't a real bisexual. I was just an explorer. Right?

But as Santana looked at me from across the table, for a moment, I wasn't sure.

Santana was hoping I'd say something more. I felt I owed her something, though I wasn't sure why. I suppose I feel I owe most people honesty.

"I mean, it was good," I assured her. "I had fun."

"And by fun you mean..." She drifted off, then followed with, "At least one orgasm?"

I was startled by her bluntness, but I found myself nodding. I remembered that orgasm. There aren't many I remember, but I remember the first one Maggie gave me. It seemed to ignite not only me, but Maggie as well. She was so satisfied that she'd pleased me that the world seemed to slow and her smile shone. She'd whispered in my ear, sticky fingers still inside me as she brought me down before caressing the rest of me, working the afterglow into every muscle and crevice. It was so good that it alarmed me. It had been the holy grail of orgasms, and it felt unfair to Maggie to not give her the credit she was due.

"Yeah," I said with a sheepish smile.

Santana smiled like the cat who's caught the mouse, but she composed herself before it grew too smug.

"So how's your dating life today?" she asked.

I felt myself sink down from the floating memory of my first time with Maggie to the frozen tundra of working for Dr. Turner, dating no one, and being intimate only with myself. That was depressing.

I scrunched up my nose and lips and shrugged. I didn't know what to tell Santana. That I was lusting after a stupid brilliant man who never noticed me because I was too boring?

"That bad?" Santana asked. She raised her eyebrows as she took a sip of her drink. "Jeez, what is wrong with people in this town? All the singles I know would love to date someone like you."

I blushed, first at the compliment, and then at the realization that most of those people were probably women. Therefore she was silently thinking about which of her female friends would want to date me. That was too close to my white picket fence.

"I kind of have a thing for my boss," I admitted.

"Dr. Turner?" Santana asked, scrunching her nose in distaste.

I nodded, a quick ashamed nod. "Don't tell anyone."

Santana sat back, crossing her arms over her chest. "Well I was planning to put it in this week's column, but I can refrain if it would make you uncomfortable."

I shot her a pained look with a roll of my eyes. Her sarcasm didn't mask the fact that she thought I was pathetic for lusting after my boss. But I didn't know what to say. I was kind of pathetic.

"So what's the deal with Dr. Dreamboat?" she asked begrudgingly, despite her apparent willingness to talk about him.

I told her about how smart and charming Dr. Turner was, and she listened without a trace of a smile on her face. After a while I started feeling ridiculous, as though I was describing something that didn't exist. So I asked her about growing up in San Antonio, and everything got easier.

Before I knew it, the sun was setting. I had spent several hours with Santana, and it felt like just a few minutes. Anyone who is that easy to be around is worth keeping around.

"Want to hang out again?" Santana asked. "Now that you know I'm not trying to get in your pants," she added with a smirk.

I gave her a pained giggle and nodded. Despite her dismissal of Dr. Turner, I liked her. And in truth, I was excited to see her again.

* * *

x

* * *

I let the prostitution money sit on my dresser for a week as a reminder that I needed to sort out how I felt about sex for pay. I hadn't purposely solicited a sexual business arrangement, but by taking the money, I was now an accomplice in an act of prostitution.

I briefly entertained the idea of returning it, but dismissed the idea after I imagined walking up to Dr. Turner and handing him his money with an explanation he would deem boring and self-righteous. I wasn't going to contact him just to return his money. So ultimately, I spent it. And let me tell you, the shoes I bought and the groceries I paid for and the student loan bill I paid were immensely satisfying.

I'd acknowledged what I'd done. I'd engaged in prostitution. It hadn't been gross or seedy or debasing. It had just been boring.

But my upbringing niggled into my brain, forcing me to consider the moral underpinnings of what I'd done. I'd done something illegal, and I'd used my body to make money. Plenty of people can say those things. Most people break some kind of laws regularly, and most people have done physical labor. Sex is a physical kind of labor, isn't it? Just because places deemed private by "decent" members of society were involved didn't mean I was so different than truck drivers or farmers or construction workers. After all, showing an ankle used to be scandalous, and now you can wear whatever you want as long as your nipples and crotch are covered. It's all relative.

I settled that with myself and decided what I'd done hadn't been wrong.

I'd been smart enough to change my voicemail the second I gave my number to Dr. Turner. Since he thought my name was Violet, I couldn't have him call and discover from my voicemail that my name was Brittany. So I took my name off my voicemail and hoped he wouldn't find out the truth elsewhere. I figured if I didn't hear from him again in a few weeks, I could change it back, and prostituting myself would be that thing I did once in grad school.

But to my shock, he called the next weekend, around ten on Saturday night. I let it go to voicemail because I had no idea what to say to him. After I set the phone back down on the coffee table and hoped Justine wouldn't pry, she did just that.

"Looks like you're avoiding someone who likes you again," she grumbled. "I swear, Britt, it's like you don't want to experience a good relationship."

I tried to deflect. "I've had a good relationship."

"Which is why you won't give anyone the time of day now," she pushed. "You really need to get over him, Britt."

"I am over him," I said, defensive. "I went out with Dr. Turner last weekend."

"And since then you've refused to tell me anything about your date except where you went to dinner and that was 'nice.'"

She can be so pushy sometimes.

"Not much more to tell," I shrugged. "It was just a date."

"Like you have those so often," she said, rolling her eyes.

I felt myself stiffening. I didn't want to tell her much about my date because I didn't want her to know that Dr. Turner had given me money for sleeping with him. That was something I was sure she would explode at. She'd make me feel worse than Dr. Turner had, and I'd lose all the satisfaction I'd gained with my shoes and groceries and loan payment.

I glued my eyes to the TV and tried to appear indifferent to Justine's prodding. I watched the actors as they staged reenactments on the History Channel. Nights like these were one of the best things about living with Justine. If neither of us had plans to go out, she'd make a fantastic dinner - and I mean _fantastic_, with all kinds of weird ingredients you couldn't find even in a heath food store in Michigan- and we'd sit on the couch with a bottle of red wine and watch nerd programs. Justine is a nerd too, but in the San Francisco hipster way. She fits in so well here, you'd never guess she's from Connecticut.

The documentary we were watching was about some famous outlaw during Gold Rush. When the show made a comment in a copacetically coy voice about this outlaw's affinity for saloon women, I glanced over at Justine. What did _she_ think of prostitutes?

Justine may have been opinionated and sassy, but above all, I loved and respected her, and I knew the feeling was mutual. What would she think of what I had done? Did she think prostitutes were empowered, as I had felt in my own way as I spent Dr. Turner's - no, _my_ - money, or did she view them with disgust, as I had been taught to? I was so curious, I had to ask.

"What do you think of these saloon ladies?" I said, tipping my chin toward the screen.

"What do you mean?" Justine frowned.

It hinted at disapproval, which frightened me. I didn't want to know if she was disgusted by what I had done. I just wanted her political opinion, sans emotion.

"Prostitutes," I said. "What do you think?"

Justine frowned at the screen for a moment, pursing her lips in thought. Then she took a breath and let out a weary sigh. "I think that people care way too much about women's bodies."

"Yeah?" I asked, encouraged.

Justine nodded. "If we're not sex objects, then we're political objects. I hate that. If women want to prostitute themselves, that's their business. More power to them. As long as it's their choice, of course. Otherwise it's trafficking, which I have a lot to say about," she said, as though warning me that discussing human trafficking was a conversation that would require us to mute or turn off the TV and open another bottle of wine.

Not wanting to incite an impassioned rant about human trafficking, I nodded and kept my eyes on the screen. But inside, I was delighted. Justine wouldn't be angry at me if she found out. And even though I had no plans to tell her about my foray into prostitution, that made me relieved beyond belief.

After Justine went to bed that night, I checked the message Dr. Turner had left. He was mumbling a bit, and I wondered if he'd been drinking, or if it was me who'd had too much wine. His deep, husky voice went straight to the point: he wanted to see me again. And although I didn't call him back until the following day after I'd poked around on some escort worker message boards, I never thought twice about it.

When I saw him the following weekend, I wasn't sure what to expect. Would he bother with the pretense of dinner? Acknowledge that he'd paid me for sex? Feel entitled to more this time? I braced myself, which must have come across as rigidity.

"You okay?" he asked after I'd been in his apartment for less than a minute and realized, with an ounce of relief, we were not going out to dinner. "You look tense."

That did nothing except to increase my anxiety about the fact that my anxiety was showing. But in the end, I surprised myself with my forwardness.

"If we're gonna do this, I need to set some ground rules," I said.

He looked surprised, but not offended. Then he gestured to the couch. "By all means," he said.

I sat, though still upright and guarded.

"Can I get you a drink?" he offered.

I shook my head. "No." One of my rules was that I was never going to drink before sleeping with him. I wanted to be clear-headed.

"I'm going to grab a beer," he said, going into the kitchen. I heard him open the refrigerator and pop the top off a bottle. He came back into the living room and sat in his easy chair, bending forward with his elbows on his knees. "So lay it out for me," he said, gesturing with his hands. "Tell me your rules."

I took a breath. I knew from the forums I'd looked at that setting rules now was easier than trying to enforce them without telling him, and certainly easier than making them up as I went. But being new to prostitution, I didn't know everything that I needed to in order to set boundaries.

"Well, first of all, I guess... I..." I was stumbling and cringing inwardly at how amateur I sounded. "I need to know what you're looking for."

Dr. Turner gave me a sniff of a smile. "No strings," he said. "I don't want to meet friends or parents or celebrate anniversaries or anything. The money is in place of that."

I nodded, even though I was still unclear. There was no time like the present to ask. "Are you wanting to date, or just have sex?"

Dr. Turner looked to the side, which I interpreted as uncertainty. It was the first time I'd seen him uncertain, and I almost felt bad for him. He didn't know what he wanted, other than to get off in uncomplicated ways. But I knew better than to think that a dating-and-prostitution arrangement could be uncomplicated. So I preempted his response.

"Because I can do no-strings sex. But I don't want to date."

Dr. Turner looked down at his beer bottle and nodded. I detected a hint of shame, but didn't feel like exploring it. We weren't dating, which meant neither of us was obligated to discuss feelings.

"I want to get clear on some things. Are you paying me for my time or for... something else?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like the quality of the experience or the investment I put into making it pleasurable."

"I don't know," Dr. Turner said, scratching the back of his neck. "All of the above. Whatever I think is adequate."

I bristled at that. It sounded too subjective to work out in my favor. So I laid out my rate for him, which I knew wasn't that high for what I was offering.

"Six hundred per hour minimum. Whatever you want to tag onto that is up to you. Cash only."

"_Six_ hundred?"

"Minimum," I reiterated.

Dr. Turner rubbed the back of his neck, then let his eyes swoop over my legs up to my breasts before giving a stiff nod. "Six hundred minimum," he mumbled.

"There are certain things I don't do," I said, knowing I had to talk about what services I was and was not offering.

"Such as?" He straightened up as though he were sitting around a negotiating table.

"I don't do anything on camera, I don't do anal, I don't do bareback, and I don't swallow."

Dr. Turner shifted in his seat, eyebrow quirking for a minute as he realized that I was serious about setting limits. "Fine by me," he said.

"I also want you to get screened for STIs and provide me with a written medical summary. I'll do the same for you."

Dr. Turner pursed his lips and frowned. "But if we're using condoms..."

"I don't care," I said, crossing my arms in challenge.

Dr. Turner looked down again, then gave a nod. "Okay."

"I don't do any kind of bondage, knife play, gun play, blood play, breath play, or anything else that leaves a mark on my body."

Dr. Turner looked startled at my open discussion of specific kinks. "Sure. I'm not into any of that."

"And I don't do threesomes," I said, covering my bases.

Dr. Turner sighed, as though my list of demands was tiring him. "Anything else?"

Knowing I was testing his patience with my rules, I backed down. I was, after all, being paid to be a fantasy object. Fantasy objects weren't supposed to be tough negotiators. So, for the first time in my life, I consciously slipped into being Violet. My smile grew coy and I leaned toward him, squeezing my arms into my torso so they accentuated my cleavage.

"Yeah," I hummed, making my voice airier. "When do you want to start?"


	3. Jezebel

**A/N: Hello, readers! I'm excited for this chapter. I mean, I'm always excited about posting chapters, but this one especially. A lot going on, a lot of movement, a lot of twists. I hope you enjoy!**

**Thanks to JJ for her fierce beta skills.**

* * *

So here's what you missed on Dandelion: Bar!Britt got drunk with Santana and they were totally flirting with each other and Santana invited Britt back to her house and Britt said yes. Lab!Britt has plans with Santana for next weekend, and even though she's all hung up on Dr. Turner and claims she doesn't date women anymore, she needs to wake up and smell the pretentious coffee and see Santana is a better match for her. Violet!Britt was a total badass and found a way to make tons of money off a guy she was originally willing to sleep with for free. And that's what you missed!

* * *

We made it a few blocks down the street, successfully dodging all the wedges of pavement that stuck up, threatening to trip drunk idiots like us. Santana halted in front of a metal gate and wrestled around in her bag for a few moments before she produced her keys, brandishing them as though she had accomplished some type of locksmithing victory. She opened the gate, then the door, keys noisy as she leaned forward too far. The door banged against the wall as it flew open.

She ushered me up a long, narrow staircase and into an equally narrow hallway. From there we walked down the corridor until we reached apartment 206.

"Thi'sme," she said. "Two oh six."

"That's a good number."

"Isn't it?" Santana said, as though I had admitted to sharing a rare opinion.

She unlocked the door to her apartment and then paused with it cracked open. "Um, it's kinda messy."

"It's okay," I said, peering into a tiny studio cluttered with piles of laundry, towers of books, and stacks of dishes in the sink.

"Here, just-" Santana held her hand up, preventing me from coming in. "Hold on."

She walked in and shut the door, leaving me in the hall for a second. As I stood listening to Santana shuffling and bumping around, I felt myself rock to the side. I steadied myself on the wall and blinked, then opened my eyes wide to try to sober up. I had to keep my shit together if I was going to be any good for Santana.

After a few minutes the door flew open again.

"Sorry 'bout that," Santana said, tucking her hair behind her ears. "Come in."

I entered and saw that Santana had strategically grouped the laundry and shoved some of it under the bed and into a doorless closet. The dishes were stacked slightly less haphazardly and the curtains had been closed. The queen bed was the biggest thing in the room, with a desk and a chair and a bookshelf paneling one wall, the kitchenette with its minifridge, standard sink and hotplate in a nook next to the bathroom. Despite Santana's efforts, the place was a mess. But it was color-coordinated, so it wasn't as chaotic as it might have been.

"S'nice," I said. "I like your pictures." I pointed to a row of framed photos on a shelf.

"Oh," Santana said, seeming embarrassed. "Those are old."

I walked toward the pictures, being careful not to trip over anything. I studied the pictures and was surprised to see Santana in a cheerleading uniform. "You were a cheerleader?"

"All my life," Santana said, sounding fatigued. "Can I get you a drink?"

I turned and smiled. "Water."

Santana looked relieved and said, "Prob'ly a good idea." She walked over to the sink and took out a glass, inspecting it to make sure it was clean before filling it from the tap. She took out another glass and filled it before carrying both over to me.

"I don't need two," I said.

Santana just smiled and took a sip. "'Sfor me," she said.

"Oh." I felt silly and hid my embarrassment by taking a long gulp of water. When I had drained the glass, I looked up and watched as Santana drank her water. She drank so beautifully. Her throat moved in graceful pulses with each swallow. She had a really nice throat. Her skin was so smooth and soft, and I was sure it would taste good...

As soon as Santana lowered the glass, we locked eyes.

I had to kiss her right then. Her lips were so beautiful and full and water from the glass was making them glisten. I stepped forward and paused just long enough for Santana to move before lowering my lips to hers.

It felt like a giant exhale. Hours of drinking and talking and flirting and trying to say the right thing had led up to this. Now we were kissing, and we knew we were on the same page. We both wanted this. Oh, god, it felt so good. I had to remind myself not to undress immediately, I was so eager to feel close to this beautiful girl.

But then it was _her_ pushing me towards the bed. I tried not to stumble as I walked backwards, blindly, my calves hitting the bed frame. I bent backwards, Santana's sloppy kisses pressing my neck back. I arched my eyebrows, happy and surprised at her enthusiasm.

Santana pulled away for a moment. "This okay?" she gasped, looking at me hungrily. It was as if something had come uncorked from her and now all her lust was tumbling out as fast as mine.

"Yeah," I gasped back, grasping at Santana's back.

I was about to add _hell yeah_ when Santana attached her mouth to mine again and we toppled onto the bed. The comforter folded under my back, creating a ridge, but I ignored it as I adjusted to Santana's weight on top of me. She was the perfect amount of grounding and warm and soft, and oh god, her lips were so delicious and soft and wet and they were all over my neck and jaw. I hadn't even gotten my bearings when I felt Santana's hand sliding up my shirt. I surged with excitement. This was actually going to happen.

I followed suit, snaking my hand down Santana's thigh to the hem of her dress. I felt around, teasing, trying to appreciate the newness of her body through my haze. I slid the material up, pushing against its elasticity, and found Santana was wearing silk panties.

"These are... awesome," I mumbled, letting my hand trail over her backside.

Santana pulled her head up from my neck, jerking a bit as she pulled strands of hair out of her mouth. "Don't I know it," she grinned. She dropped her head again, rocking into my hand and against my thigh as she started sucking.

I gasped as Santana fixed her lips to just the right spot and cupped my breast over my bra. Combined with the alcohol and the smell of Santana's skin, I was overwhelmed.

I knew my best defense was to fight fire with fire. I gave Santana's ass a squeeze and rocked up, putting pressure between her legs. She moaned into my neck, but kept her suction.

"Fuck, let's do this," Santana said, sitting up abruptly. She pulled her dress over her head and unsnapped her red lace bra, revealing her round, perky breasts.

I took my clothes off in a frenzy, all too eager to be with her. Her skin was so soft and electric, but the current was dulled by the alcohol swirling through me, like putting a barrier of coarse cotton between me and everything around me. I still felt every sensation, but it was muted.

Limbs and hair tangled together as our lips mashed. Her hand slipped between my legs and I gasped, wishing I could feel everything with sober sharpness. But part of me was glad I was disinhibited. She was, after all, almost a stranger.

Halfway through, I started spinning too fast and had to pull away, steadying myself with my hands against the headboard. Santana, though still drunk, noticed my alarm and paused. "You okay?" she panted, her rocking slowing and coming to a halt.

"Yeah..." I mumbled, shutting my eyes for a moment. "Just... give me a second."

As I lay there, feeling as though the whole city were spinning around me, I tried to rally myself.

_Come on, Brittany. This girl is beautiful and hot and attentive and you really, really want to be naked with her. If you were sober, you would think you'd died and gone to heaven. Fucking enjoy this while it lasts._

I took several deep breaths before opening my eyes, forcing some of the playful sparkle into them for Santana to see. She smiled down at me, eager to continue. "Sure you're okay?" she asked.

I paused for a moment before I nodded. Santana looked doubtful, but to prove my point, I rallied my strength and flipped her over, earning a delighted shriek and a gasp as I slid my fingers inside her and started pumping, determined to make her come first.

I succeeded. Watching Santana writhe beneath me was worth the mental pep talk I'd given myself. I watched as her mouth fell open and her brow creased, shoulders pushing against the mattress as she seized, air stuck in her throat for a few seconds before she cried out and gripped my shoulders for support. I felt powerful.

I was panting in sympathy, the muscles in my right arm sore from pumping. It was worth it though. Besides, in the morning, I wouldn't be able to feel it.

All too soon, I was on my back again, a crease of comforter wedged between my shoulders as Santana ravished me. I could tell she preferred to receive, though she'd never cop to it. But I had to admit, Santana was a convincing top. She looked down her nose at me, cool in her mastery and unrelenting in her efforts to bring me to release.

I had always found it difficult to let go when I was drunk. Something about the dizziness and the numbness and the bloating from the alcohol. The looseness in my limbs felt a little too loose, as though I were a gangly fawn tripping over my own legs. But Santana was assertive and in control so I didn't feel as disoriented as I might have. I closed my eyes and focused on the sensation of our bodies pressed together, the feel of Santana's breasts on mine, and the determined jabbing between my legs that was quickly bringing my pulse up to a level of frantic exertion.

When I was almost there, I felt myself plateau. I panicked for a moment, wondering if I'd be able to let go when I was tingling all over from the booze. Santana must have sensed my worry, because she dipped her head to my ear and started talking dirty, which was my kryptonite.

"You're so close. I can feel it. I feel you tightening around my fingers. I'll keep going until I feel you squeeze down around me so hard, you see stars. I'll try every trick I know until something works. I can't wait to see your face when you come. So, ugh," she grunted as she increased her effort, "fucking sexy."

I hovered in uncertainty for only a moment. When I felt Santana's tongue trace the rim of my ear, I shuddered and sucked in air, preparing. After a few more pumps, I felt myself start to free-fall, and was flooded with the relief that I'd been able to come mixed with the ecstasy of my orgasm.

True to her word, Santana kept pumping, increasing her movements as I strained beneath her, teeth clenched and lungs rigid. It felt amazing.

When my breath broke and I started settling back down into the bed, Santana didn't still her hand.

"Wanna go again?" she asked, her words slurring with self-satisfaction and alcohol.

I shook my head. I was already overwhelmed and the alcohol was making me sleepy.

"No," I panted. "I'm good." I closed my eyes, feeling warmth spread through my limbs. "That was really good."

I heard a satisfied chuckle next to my ear as she stilled her hand. "Good."

There was a moment of quiet and I felt as though I were a feather or piece of tissue paper suspended in the air, aimless and light and euphoric, yet inevitably destined for the ground. Whether sleep or sobriety or regret would seize me first was the only question.

It seemed sleep was the first bidder because next thing I knew, I woke in a blindingly bright room that smelled faintly of sex but mostly of fabric softener.

Then I realized that I was lying in bed next to Santana, a beautiful girl I'd slept with in a moment of drunken impulsiveness. Should I regret it? If so, I should try to leave immediately. I should walk-of-shame it back home, which was only a few blocks away, and hope Santana didn't come into the bar again.

But I didn't know if I was supposed to regret it. Regret was for people of stiff moral fiber. I had morals when it came to the big things like child abuse and other forms of nonsensical violence. But one night stands weren't within those confines.

I was halfway through routing the best way to retrieve my clothing and leave without waking Santana, still not sure such a rude exit was warranted, when I felt her stirring behind me.

"Oh... shit," Santana groaned.

I wondered if she was referring to our liaison, the alcohol-induced headache, or something else. I tried to lay still, pretending to be asleep, but I knew I was too rigid to be convincing.

Then I wondered if Santana even knew I was there. I had awoken facing the window, and Santana was on her side facing the door. It was possible Santana thought she was alone.

But that possibility was dispelled when Santana rolled over abruptly, sucking in air in a gasp as she took in my back. The sound made me even more tense, and unsure of my next move. How would I extricate myself from this situation gracefully?

There was a moment of excruciating silence before Santana hissed, "Are you awake?"

I paused and swallowed before I said, "Yeah." My throat felt dry and I was embarrassed about the whole situation. Did I sound too sleepy? Too awake?

"Shit..." Santana said again. I felt her moving on the bed behind me, but didn't dare to look. I knew she was as naked as I was, and without the gauzy effect of the alcohol, I didn't feel ready to expose myself, nor privy to look at Santana.

"Do you need a ride somewhere?" Santana asked.

I cringed. That was my cue to leave. She wanted me out as soon as possible, dumped out like the dregs of beer in the bar glasses, too eager to be washed and set out anew.

"Uh, no, I can walk," I said, clutching a pilled cotton-poly sheet to my chest.

"You live nearby?" Santana asked, surprised.

It was a reminder of how drunk we had been the night before because I remembered telling Santana where I lived. Obviously Santana did not remember that conversation. Our patchwork memory didn't bode well for a smooth morning.

"Yeah," I said.

I heard Santana yawn. "Oh," she said, the word garbled as she rubbed her face. "Shit, I gotta go," she mumbled.

I felt the mattress shift as she got up. The swishing of fabric indicated Santana was getting dressed. As I waited for her to cover herself, I decided to make polite conversation. "Your apartment smells good," I said.

"It's the laundromat downstairs," Santana said. "Thanks to that I always smell Downy soft."

"Sweet," I said, for lack of any other response.

"It beats living over a bakery. At least this way I'm not always hungry."

"Yeah."

There was more awkward silence as my gaze bore into the wall as I made an effort not to turn and see Santana naked. The noises behind me became less discernable and I wondered if it would be okay to turn around yet. I wondered what a polite way to figure that out would be when Santana came into my view, walking alongside the bed in a striped shirt and worn blue jeans. She placed a glass of water on the little box next to me, setting two aspirin next to it. "There you go," she said. "Hope it's not too bad."

I was grateful for the gesture, but couldn't help but wonder if it was code for "take this and get out."

While Santana was in the bathroom, I tried to figure out how to exit gracefully. Leaving while Santana was in the bathroom would be the most nonconfrontational, but would convey that I regretted sleeping with her and wanted as little to do with her as possible. Looking at the pictures on the shelf, smelling the clean laundry scent of her disheveled apartment, I didn't want to incite that kind of assumption. I didn't regret it. I just felt awkward because I didn't know how Santana felt.

I quickly got dressed. I didn't think putting on my panties would be quite sanitary, so I stuffed them in the inside pocket of my purse, making a mental note to throw them in the laundry as soon as I got home. Feeling the loose stickiness of going commando, I surveyed my surroundings. How could I leave without making a negative statement? I heard the toilet flush and realized I didn't have much time to decide. As the sink turned in, the soothing static of running water filling the room, I saw a notepad and pencil on Santana's desk. I picked up the pencil and wrote my name and number on the paper with a smiley face. That way, Santana had my number - and name, if she'd forgotten it - but no obligation to call. It was the easiest thing I could think of.

I set down the pencil just as the bathroom door opened. Santana seemed shocked and relieved that I was still there, as though going into the bathroom had been her way of giving me an opportunity to leave.

"Hey," she said, avoiding eye contact. "Sorry I have to run. There's a brunch thing this morning for Rachel I'm supposed to be at."

"Yeah, no problem," I said, keeping my voice light.

I didn't know if Santana was telling the truth or making up an excuse to leave her apartment. I paused for a minute to let her know I felt fine about our hookup.

"I had good time last night," I said tentatively, hoping Santana would agree with me.

This seemed to only fluster Santana more. "Yeah, it was good," she said. But again, her voice was too tight for me to know if she was telling the truth.

She bent to put on her flats, falling forward a few inches onto the desk, catching herself as she slid the shoe over her heel. "I gotta go, I'm already late," she said, not making eye contact as she grabbed a jacket and her purse from the back of the chair. "But I'll, uh, catch you later."

I realized that I was expected to leave before Santana when she stood, looking around, all ready to go. I slid into my shoes and grabbed my purse, pulling my hair into a messy ponytail and ducking out the door in front of her.

If Santana was really going to a bachelorette brunch, she would need to take the purse she'd come back to the bar to get. Tina needed her ID for her flight, right?

That is, if Santana was actually going to the brunch and not just fleeing a crime scene.

"Don't forget Tina's purse," I said.

Santana startled and dashed back into her apartment. I didn't know if I should wait for her or leave. I opted to walk as slow as molasses down the hall, which was probably more awkward than walking normally or stopping.

When Santana returned, relocking her door frantically behind her, we ambled down the stairs in silence - the stairs that had seemed so much steeper the night before- and out into the bright September sun.

Santana paused, pointing in the opposite direction as me. "Well... bye," she said, trying to smile but looking more grimacing.

I tried to reassure her with what I hoped was a genuine smile. "Bye."

And with that, I turned to go, confused, disappointed, and wishing I had been able to make the morning smoother.

* * *

x

* * *

On Tuesday afternoon, I was trying to get a piece of popcorn kernel out of my teeth when Dr. Turner approached my desk. That was odd. Usually he used his intercom to ask me to make copies or answer phones. I straightened up, wanting him to think I was working hard.

In reality, I was playing Scrabble and texting my sister about the inefficacy of strapless bras. Not that I had a reason to own a strapless bra these days. But when I had, it had aspired only to be a belt.

"Brittany," Dr. Turner said with a smile that was exceptionally kind.

I was happy he used my name. Half the time when he addressed me, he didn't use any kind of name, which made me think he forgot it sometimes. I guess I hadn't done much to be memorable.

"Yeah?"

He leaned forward, putting his palms on the far side of my desk as he faced me. The proximity was alarming, and if he hadn't been smiling, I would have felt criticized.

"I'm hoping you can do me a favor," he said, with a smile that was trying unsuccessfully to be sheepish. But it was still cute.

"Sure. Absolutely. What do you need?"

I assumed he wanted copies or something, but when he glanced to the side for a moment, I realized the favor was more personal. I got excited. Was I going to be asked to do something that would entail time alone with him?

"My nephew is coming into town for a few weeks and I want him to have a good time. He's just gotten out of a relationship and, well... you know how that goes."

Something in my stomach stiffened. This was not where I was expecting this conversation to go. But no sooner had a I stiffened, I was intrigued. Dr. Turner assumed I knew what it was like to be recently out of a relationship. And furthermore, he was asking me to do something involving one of his family members.

"I was hoping you could take him out for a night or two. Show him the city."

Oh. He was asking me to go on a _date_ with his nephew.

I wasn't sure how I felt about that.

My hesitation must have shown, because Dr. Turner was quick to reassure me. "Don't worry, he's cute," he said, reaching into his pocket. He flicked through his phone until he came to a picture of a young man about my age, with nicely cut hair and high cheek bones. He _was_ cute.

I looked at the picture and then up at Dr. Turner, noticing the resemblance. Dr. Turner studied my face with a smirk. "Think you can do that for me?"

Glancing back at the picture one last time, I gave him a tight-lipped nod. I wasn't accustomed to being asked to date people I'd never met. But maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Justine was always pushing me to date. Maybe I'd have fun. Lots of people went on blind dates. This guy was related to Dr. Turner, and if he had half the intelligence and charm of my boss, I'd have a good night. Maybe I'd even be excited about a guy for once.

Dr. Turner tucked his phone back in his pocket and smiled.

"Thanks, doll," he said, turning to go. "I'll set something up for Saturday night. You'll like him. Vance is a good kid."

As he left the room, I deflated. I had almost been flattered that he'd asked me to go out with his nephew. But by calling Vance a kid, he'd undone all the flattery he'd worked up.

He thought I was a kid too.

And to make matters worse, I realized that I had plans with Santana on Saturday night that I'd now have to cancel.

Because I knew that Santana didn't like Dr. Turner, I didn't tell her why I had to cancel our plans for Saturday. I just told her that I had to take a raincheck because of a work thing. She was gracious, using smiley faces in her texts, and said she hoped we'd see each other soon. I assured her we would and tried to focus on being excited for my date with Dr. Turner's nephew.

When Saturday night came, I decided that this time I would buy a cute outfit to wear, since I was sure it was a real date. Dr. Turner had made us dinner reservations. After getting ready in my room with the door closed, I discreetly slipped out of the house while Justine was in the shower. So far, everything was going well.

I arrived at the restaurant to find Vance waiting at a table for me. He stood when I approached and shook my hand, and even though I expected the date to be awkward, it was anything but. He was charming and friendly and had great stories about his work in a mobile app startup in San Diego. He said he was in town interviewing for a few positions, which he talked about. His work sounded so much more exciting than mine. The conversation was easy, and as the meal went on, I found myself leaning closer and closer to him across the table. Maybe I had been too distracted by Dr. Turner to notice guys my own age that were poised for good careers, even if they didn't have advanced degrees or 401ks yet. Maybe Justine and my sister were right. Maybe I was missing out by avoiding relationships.

At the end of the meal, Vance paid, refusing my offer to split the bill. He held my coat up for me to put on, and then the door as we left. Then he gestured down the street and I took his lead, looking at the wonder of the city at night.

We had walked a few blocks when he pointed to a doorway. "This is where I'm staying," he said, looking up at the windows towering ten stories up, then back at me. He studied me as though making a decision.

Then he smiled. "I had a great night with you, Brittany. I hope I can see you again while I'm in town."

His courtesy and politeness flustered me, to the point where I could only smile nervously and nod, looking down at my feet. Then he leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. It was adorable, in a way. I would have preferred a kiss on the lips, but Vance seemed to think that a kiss on the cheek was all that was appropriate. His old-school charm made me giddy, and I walked all the way back to the bus stop on cloud nine.

Since my date with Vance had been so pleasant and successful, I fessed up to Justine the next day. I kept it casual, not wanting her to blow my hope out of proportion. That would surely be bad luck, especially after just one date. I had, after all, been single for-fucking-ever.

Justine was excited for me, and encouraged me to text him to let him know I'd had a good time. Which, in dating language, meant I wanted to go out again. Which I did. So I did. Vance and I exchanged a few texts and he asked me out to dinner the following Saturday. Giddy with delight, I agreed, unable to contain my goofy grin as I fell face-first into the couch in excitement.

Only a few minutes later Santana texted me. _Hey, how about dinner this Saturday? There's a place on Columbus I want to check out :)_

My excitement about Vance drooped with my guilt about blowing Santana off. But I didn't feel as guilty as I would have if my date with Vance had been terrible. The fact that it was great made lying to Santana seem a little more justified.

Which is probably why I lied again.

_I'm sorry, I have another work thing. Friday maybe?_

She wrote back immediately, _Friday I'm getting back late from a press conference in Sacramento. Sunday?_

Hesitant, but unsure why, I answered, _Sure_.

A few days later, I was making copies right before for lunch when I heard Dr. Turner talking animatedly in the entryway.

"Hey, kiddo! What are you doing here? I thought we were meeting for drinks later."

Then I heard Vance's unmistakable baritone and my stomach started fluttering with nerves.

"Yeah, we're still on. I just came to take your assistant out to lunch. Is she around?"

My heart raced.

"My assistant?" Dr. Turner asked, confused for a moment. Then he said with realization, "Oh, _Brittany_? Yeah, she's here." The was a pause and Dr. Turner lowered his voice. "That good, huh?" I heard his hand smack some part of Vance's body.

They didn't know I was in the copy room, so they didn't know I could hear them. I hoped Vance wouldn't say anything that would embarrass me.

And to my relief, he didn't.

"We just had a nice meal," he said. "She's a nice girl."

I heard more shoulder patting and Dr. Turner said, as though apologizing, "I'm sure she is."

Even when Vance didn't know I could hear him, he was a gentleman. Even if _nice_ wasn't the most exciting descriptor he could have given me, I suppose I hadn't given him much reason to think I was sexy or interesting or smart yet.

Butterflies flurried in my stomach as I realized what him showing up unannounced to take me out to lunch meant. It meant I had a chance to show him I _could_ be sexy and interesting and smart. I couldn't mess it up.

As the copy machine flicked through the last of my copies, I started panicking. I smoothed my hair and rubbed my index finger over my teeth to make them shiny. I didn't know what else to do to make myself presentable. I didn't look anything like I'd looked on our date. I was in my drab work clothes and my hair and makeup had been given minimal effort this morning. I'd put a tube of lipstick in my purse for the date, but that was in the other room. I could buy myself time by staying in the copy room, but that wouldn't do any good. Vance would eventually find me or give up. I didn't want him to leave, so I cinched my papers together and took a shaky, excited breath. I had just straightened up to walk out of the room into the main section of the office when Vance appeared in the doorway.

Instantly his smile spread unevenly in a grin. "Hey Brittany," he said, holding up a single daisy toward me. "I was hoping I could take you out to lunch."

Not trusting myself to answer verbally, I gave a quick, enthusiastic nod. All I could do was gaze at his jawline and cheekbones and sturdy shoulders. He looked even more handsome than he had on our date.

"How does Thai food sound?" he asked.

"Perfect," I said. It came out a cross between a whisper and a moan, and I wished I'd just given another enthusiastic nod instead of sounding like I was currently being aroused by toners and collators.

He held the flower toward me and, blushing, I took a few steps forward to accept it. But halfway toward him I realized I had left my copies on the copier, and awkwardly turned back to get it, while at the same time reaching out to accept the flower, resulting in a weird torque that was probably the least graceful thing I'd ever done.

Vance didn't seem to notice, because after I'd retrieved my copies, put them on my desk, and recovered from the initial wave of embarrassment over my overwhelming awkwardness, he held the flower out for me to take again and walked me outside.

"I forgot my purse!" I exclaimed halfway down the block, feeling like an idiot for the hundredth time in five minutes.

"You don't need it," he said. "I'm taking you out to lunch."

I gave up trying to understand why this beautiful man was tolerating my awkwardness and focused on not tripping over my own feet as walked down the street to a little Thai food restaurant I had always looked at but never gone into.

He was just as cordial as he had been on our first date, and as we looked at our menus and ordered our food, I studied how his face looked in daylight. What really stood out were his eyes. They sparkled. Kind of like Santana's did.

We ate and chatted and he told me he'd had a great interview at a tech company in the financial district that morning. I was happy and excited for him, and that selfish, lonely part of me hoped he'd get the job and move to the city and we could keep dating.

The rest of our lunch was perfect, and my only complaint was that I didn't get a kiss. But I didn't want our first kiss to be in front of my office. That wasn't romantic at all. So I supposed I could wait until Saturday.

On Saturday he took me to a restaurant in North Beach called Rose Pistola. He ordered a nice bottle of wine and after the full theatrical display the waiter put on of pouring a sample for his approval first, he raised his glass and told me he had good news. Intrigued, I raised my glass and my eyebrows as his smile spread across his face.

"I got the job I was hoping for," he announced. "I start two weeks from Monday."

I felt like I was soaring. I made a congratulatory exclamation that wasn't really a word and wasn't an outright yell, but probably still sounded strange. But I was so happy for him, I didn't care.

And of course, I was really happy for myself.

Vance grinned as we clinked our glasses and took a sip, never breaking eye contact.

Fueled by my overwhelming curiosity, anxious attraction to him, and the liquid courage that I knew would soon create a low hum through my body, I leaned forward. Now that I had reason to believe I had a shot at actually dating Vance long-term, I took a risk.

"I'm sorry... I just have to ask," I said, playing bashful. "Why are you single?"

He gave me a funny frown and I realized my phrasing made the question sound accusatory and judgmental. If someone had asked me why _I_ was single, I would have been embarrassed.

"I'm sorry, that sounded wrong," I stammered. "I just meant... why hasn't someone snatched you up yet?"

He gave a wincing chuckle. "I haven't made myself available until recently."

I was about to say something about that being a crime when he looked down at the tablecloth and something shifted in his face that stopped me. "My most recent girlfriend and I broke up because she went to law school across the country."

I felt myself pang with sympathy at the regret in his voice. I didn't know what to say, but he quickly looked up and said, "But these things happen. And I'm very much enjoying getting to know you."

Then he winked. He _winked_. Even though ninety-nine percent of the time I think a guy winking is tacky or creepy, when Vance did it, I loved it.

He asked me about my degree and how I'd ended up working for his uncle. I told him the story in all its boring detail, and his gaze never left me, wanting to know more about neuroscience and its practical applications.

I was halfway through telling him everything I knew about the neurobiological process of being drunk when my attention was snagged by someone sitting at the bar.

She had long black hair and a trim little waist, legs crossed as she perched on her stool, calves defined above a pair of nude pumps. In her manicured hand adorned with a sparkling tennis bracelet, she held a glass of red wine.

Santana was sitting at the bar not twenty feet from Vance and me.

I flushed cold, caught off guard. Was it too much to ask for her to not notice me? To have my perfect dinner with Vance be uneventful and fun, and deal with my guilt and confusion about her later?

As if on cue, Santana looked over her shoulder and saw me. Her hand tensed around her wine glass, but then she gave me a forced smile.

Shit.

I fixed my gaze on Vance and started muttering about losing my train of thought as I put my hand to my cheek, hoping to conceal the flush Santana had caused. He just smiled and told me that I'd been talking about neurons and alcohol and that he thought I looked cute when I talked nerdy.

I was relieved that now I had a reason to blush as I said, "Well, if there's one thing I can do, it's talk nerdy."

"I like it," he said, leaning toward me and lowering his voice. "I like smart girls."

I blushed deeper into my wine glass, aflutter with his affection.

Then there was a delicate hand on my shoulder and all the warmth Vance had given me with his compliment drained.

"Hey, Brittany," Santana said.

I forced myself to make eye contact, feet squirming under the table.

"Oh, _hey_!" I said, forcing cheer into my voice. "How was your trip to Sacramento?"

She tilted her head, amused and possibly offended by how fake I was being.

"Fine. I got the story I needed. Are we still on for tomorrow?" she asked, glancing up at Vance.

"Uh, yeah," I stammered. "Definitely."

"Great," she said, her expression victorious and disconcertingly sly. Then she looked directly at Vance and gave him a big smile I was pretty sure was fake. "I'm Santana, by the way," she said, extending her hand for him to shake, tennis bracelet flashing as she overrode my lack of introduction.

"Vance," Vance said, standing and accepting her handshake. "Pleasure to meet you, Santana."

She maintained her exaggerated smile, then folded her arm back into her body.

"Well I better get back to my drink," she said, twisting her torso toward the bar but still looking at us. Then she looked directly at me, giving me a pat on the arm as she said, "Enjoy your _work thing_." Then she walked away without further comment.

Now I was burning with embarrassment, and I didn't know which was more humiliating: Santana catching me in my lie, or the way she had treated Vance, appearing polite and friendly while mocking him.

I didn't know what to say, so I took a big sip of wine.

"Friend?" Vance asked.

I nodded, not wanting to say any more or have to explain why Santana had referenced my date as a "work thing." I knew I deserved to feel bad about lying, but that nagging disappointment of having a great date ruined made me a little angry. I decided the only thing I could do would be to not lie to Santana anymore.

That settled, I put all my effort into my conversation with Vance, desperately avoiding looking at Santana. Her presence loomed huge in my peripheral vision, but I didn't turn to look at her once, hyper-focusing on Vance and how beautiful he was. I probably laughed a little too enthusiastically and asked too many questions, but he didn't seem to mind.

After our meal, I allowed myself a single glance at the bar where Santana was seated. I noticed that she was sitting with another woman. The woman was tall and had long, wavy blonde hair and sparkly silver earrings. She looked as polished and toned as Santana did. And in the moment I stole that glance, Santana reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind the woman's ear, leaning into her as though she wanted to fall into the woman's cleavage.

And without knowing why, I burned. I was so angry at her, I decided to fight fire with fire. With sudden energy and determination, I turned to Vance.

"Want to grab another glass of wine somewhere?" I asked, sounding too forceful.

"Sure," he smiled. Then, cautiously, he suggested, "My hotel has a nice lounge, if you like."

And because going back to his hotel with him felt like the surest way to escape my anger at Santana, I agreed.

We walked down Columbus at least a mile. We commented on restaurants and shops we passed as we talked about books we'd recently read. He seemed remarkably well-read, and that was just one more thing on the long list of boyfriend-material traits he possessed.

When we came to the intersection of Broadway and Columbus - where all the strip clubs are - he kept his gaze directly ahead and asked what it was like to move out to California from the Midwest. Equally uncomfortable under the glare of the club signs, I babbled about the different shops and the linguistic differences - cart instead of buggy, soda instead of pop - until we had safely passed the clubs. He pointed out his hotel, and I felt like we were heading towards a beacon of relief. We'd have another drink and relax some more, and we'd stand an almost nonexistent chance of Santana ruining our date any further.

And I hoped - _hoped hoped hoped_ - that I'd at least get a kiss from him before the night was over. The longer I looked at him, the more tense I got. I wanted to be close to him however I could. Touching his arm, holding his hand, kissing his lips.

We had another drink and all my anger and guilt and awkwardness melted away. Keeping my attention on him was effortless. We discovered we had both taken a film class in undergrad, and we had many of the same favorite directors and genres. As our conversation went on, I found it harder and harder to focus on what he was saying as my attention zeroed in on his lips. I scooted closer to him on the couch of the hotel lounge. I had to kiss him.

So, with bravery I didn't realize I had in me, I did. And he kissed me back. Over and over and over, and my whole body melted into his torso.

Nothing undoes a girl more than a handsome man who knows how to kiss.

And before I knew it, we were kissing in his room and I was folding his jacket off his chiseled shoulders, tugging his tie off as I stepped out of my heels, pushing him toward the bed. We didn't stop kissing until our clothes were strewn over the floor and we were sweaty and panting and dazed with the satisfaction of our orgasms and the relief of releasing the sexual tension between us. As I drifted into sleep, I finally let myself believe that I might deserve someone as good as Vance.

I woke up feeling my stomach twist with hunger and the excitement of possible morning sex. Morning sex was my favorite. As much tension as had been released by getting laid had been rebuilt with the prospect of it being a common event between us now. I still felt sticky and a little sore from the night before - it had been a long time, okay? - but I was definitely up for it. I rolled over to see if he was propositionable, remembering what had worked on Damon back in the day.

But I found an empty pillow.

Hoping he was in the bathroom, I listened for noises behind the papered wall. When I didn't hear anything, I sat up.

His clothes were gone from the floor.

So were his shoes.

So was his suitcase.

There was no note on the dresser or bedside table.

I checked my phone.

No messages.

I deflated into the bed, feeling stupider than I had in my entire life.

* * *

x

* * *

Something interesting started happening to me once Dr. Turner and I started our formal arrangement: I started feeling as though I had two bodies. Not in the sense that I had two identities, although I did. Brittany and Violet were fundamentally different. But I felt I had one body that was purely a sexual object and existed for the pleasure and critique of others, namely Dr. Turner, and one that needed food and comfort and rest and to relieve itself at regular intervals.

I became aware that Dr. Turner was uncomfortable with my body having the same needs his did. So, to keep my customer happy, I tried to promote the façade that I didn't have human needs. I never ate in his presence, only drank water, and only used his bathroom when it was unavoidable.

And above all, after our first negotiation, I never broke character.

I went back on birth control. I hadn't been on it for years, but I figured it would be prudent, even if I was adamant about using condoms. So far Dr. Turner had been cooperative, reaching for one without needing to be reminded. Although when I say that he was cooperative, I mean he was just being a decent human being.

Watching the balance of my student loans tick down faster than I thought they would was rewarding. Not rewarding like an orgasm or a really good conversation with an intelligent person, but rewarding nonetheless. I hadn't called my mom or dad - or god forbid, Kimi - to ask for help. I hadn't whined to anyone about how hard it was the adjust to the real world after being in academia my whole life. I just went about my business of paying my bills like an adult. Because in the end, that's what it came down to. I was an adult, and I felt like one. I was making a living, and how I did that was my business.

The fact that Dr. Turner was not someone I'd picked up on the street made a big difference. At least to me it did. I couldn't imagine sleeping with various men for money. I didn't have the acting ability to convince unattractive people they were turning me on. My acting had gotten better, and as a result, Dr. Turner was paying me more.

I came to realize that Dr. Turner was turned on when he believed he was turning _me_ on. The more convincing I could be that I was aroused and enjoying our interaction, the more I got paid. A quick jaunt through internet boards gave me a few ideas. I tucked bottle of lube in my purse and used it to create the illusion I was wetter than I was for him. I learned to simulate my usual movements of pleasure; the way I arched my back and curled my feet. I learned to go through choreography in order to earn a bigger payout. And though some people, mostly people I knew back home, would have shaken their heads and walked away, ashamed of me, I couldn't help but think that I was resourceful. Who else could get paid for something she had originally agreed to do for free?

I had, after all, agreed to go home with Dr. Turner, knowing we would probably sleep together, without knowing he would pay me. I wasn't revolted by his appearance. Far from it. He was an attractive man, and he knew it.

But knowing him in the way I did, knowing the price he was willing to pay to feel as though he was turning a woman on, to feel he could buy someone, made him less attractive. But not so much less attractive that I couldn't stand his presence. I didn't mind him, especially when I knew that I had a planned exit time. He paid me by the hour, and I was firm about enforcing the time limits. A few times he had lagged and I'd offered to extend his time by half an hour, and once by a full hour, which he took me up on.

I began to wonder what it was inside Dr. Turner that was so afraid of connecting with a real girl that he was willing to pay me thousands of dollars a month to stand in her place. When I was feeling particularly sorry for him, I wished that someday he could be happy with a woman who gave him more than just the physical affection he wanted. Sometimes I'd even have imaginary conversations in my head with a future girlfriend of his, telling her things to watch out for and where the tender spots on his heart might be. Mostly, I wished her luck.

When the restaurant I had waitressed at throughout graduate school closed unexpectedly, I was left just a little bit short on my bills. I wasn't hurting, but I couldn't afford activities to fill up the hundred and sixty seven hours a week I wasn't with Dr. Turner. I got bored. Not that the hour or two a week I saw him was thrilling. But I felt like all the days watercolor-bled together, and I sometimes found myself asking Justine what day it was.

I'd told Justine that instead of finding another waitressing job, I'd gotten a job modeling for classes at the Academy of Art University. She hadn't asked many questions, other than if it was nude. Testing the waters, I told her it was. She'd given me a playful lift of her eyebrows and told me to have fun and see if there were any cute artists who wanted to chat afterwards. I rolled my eyes and didn't bring up my fake work again. She was working so many hours a week at the immigration reform nonprofit and so many hours a week as a nanny, she didn't know that I was home all the time.

And I was home _all_ the damn time. I was home more hours than I knew what to do with. I cleaned every crevice of our apartment, save Justine's room. I started watching trashy soaps. I tried to take up knitting but got frustrated with it quickly.

It became apparent I needed more to do with my time.

While I'd been on the message boards looking up tricks of the prostitution trade, I'd seen plenty of posts written by strippers, many of whom worked in San Francisco. I began to wonder how many of these girls I'd run into without knowing it. Was the girl in line in front of me at the grocery co-op also the busty brunette who advised new strippers to regularly wipe their asses with antibacterial wipes so they didn't get "dirty stripper butt"? Was the girl at the laundromat at the same time as me the same girl who swore on her life that strippers made more money when they wore white shoes? I started imagining that everyone around me had a secret double life. Maybe I needed to do that to feel better about my own.

I knew I was going to have to find something to do with my time. I didn't want to go back to academia, and I certainly didn't want to work in a stuffy lab. I wanted as little to do with neuroscience as possible. When scouring Craigslist for possible new career endeavors and being subsequently depressed by the pitiful number of jobs I was qualified for, my mind flickered back to the stripping message boards. The girls who posted there had raved about being able to set their own schedules, feel empowered while making good money, and work in any city in the country.

I knew I had to try it or spend years wondering why I hadn't.

After a quick scan of the "Strippers Only" message boards, I decided I wanted to try my hand at a traditional hustle club, where dancers do stage performances and then work the crowd selling dances. I could move well. I was comfortable being naked. It would be fairly dark, the music would be loud, and I'd be in a costume with tons of makeup on. I thought those things would be mask enough for me.

I wasn't sure how hard it would be to get a job at one of the dozens of clubs in the city. I decided to pick the area most dense with clubs and try my luck at each one. In the middle of the day on a Tuesday, the bus emerged from the Broadway tunnel and the stripping Mecca unrolled before me. Centerfolds, Crazy Horse, Larry Flint's, Roaring 20s, The Lusty Lady, The Hungry I. The flashing signs were overwhelming enough during the day. I'd seen them a few times at night, and they were blinding.

Stepping off the bus, I took a deep breath, wondering if my nerves were anxiety or excitement. Probably both.

The proximity to the Financial District meant these clubs probably had wealthy patrons and would be geared to a more upscale crowd. Hopefully that meant they were less seedy and complied with strip club laws. Which I wasn't really sure about. I knew that clubs that served alcohol were required to have the dancers wearing some semblance of panties. And I knew that prostitution was illegal. But I also knew, from message boards where strippers complained about customers asking for "extras," that laws didn't always translate to practice.

It occurred to me when I walked into the first club that I probably should have scoped out clubs at night when it was more active. As it was, the first club I walked into had about five dancers milling around, and no more than three customers. That made it seem quaint.

Farthest from the door was a small black stage with a gleaming silver pole on it. A tall, leggy blonde woman was winding around it to the beat of Rihanna's _Jump_, and though she was wearing nothing more than a pleather bra and matching g-string, I was mesmerized by the athletics of what she was doing. As she pulled her entire weight up the pole, her arm muscles surged. Then, wrapping her legs around the pole into a precise position, she leaned back, inverting herself and letting her hair graze the floor as her arms ran up and down her torso, squeezing her natural-looking breasts. My stomach tensed, hoping she wouldn't fall and break her neck. But she didn't. She dismounted gracefully in a variation on a cartwheel and proceeded with a few more spins before removing her bra, tossing it onto what must have been her discarded dress. She ran her hands up into her hair and strutted to the corners of the stage, undulating.

If there was one person I wished I could be in that moment, it was her. She was confident, strong, and sexy, the very picture of the empowered woman all the strippers on the message boards had talked about.

The rest of the club was clad in burgundy and black. Around the walls were curved velvet benches with small tables in front of them, and a sort of awning over top, from which a curtain was drawn back. I thought these were just tapestries installed for ambience, but when I saw one of the girls get up and draw the curtain back, concealing herself in the bench enclave with a customer, it was clear that these curtains were used to create a more intimate space for giving lap dances. I wondered if the girls charged more for taking down the curtain, or if it was just customary.

The woman dancing onstage finished her dance by removing her panties and doing what I knew was called, "floor work," which consisted of crawling on the floor, rolling onto her back and spreading her legs in a wide V, then rolling over again and flicking one of her heels up before sliding back onto her knees. She stood, collected her clothing, and walked offstage to no response whatsoever.

Considering two of the customers were busy talking to other dancers and the lone solo customer had just stared blankly at her the whole time, I'm not sure what kind of response I had expected her to get.

When the tall blonde woman emerged from a side door, dressed in her pleather g-string, I walked right up to her. She seemed startled to be approached by anyone besides staff, much less a woman.

"Hi," I said, with a big, friendly smile. "That was really awesome."

She looked my up and down with a critical eye, tucking her long blonde hair behind her ears.

"I was hoping someone could tell me what it's like to work here."

She bit down an amused smirk and raised her eyebrows. "Ever danced before?"

I shook my head, wringing my hands together. I was suddenly nervous.

She let out a silent snort. "What do you want to know?"

I looked around, not sure what questions were okay to ask. "Does it- does it get busier later?"

"You could say that."

"And you make good money?"

"You could say that," she repeated.

She was either mocking me or stonewalling me. I glanced around, wondering if there was anyone else I could talk to. But everyone seemed busy practicing pole tricks or attending to customers.

"Who do I talk to?" I asked.

She pointed toward the DJ booth that sat next to the stage, then turned and walked away without further comment.

Steeling myself, I approached the DJ.

"I was told I should talk to you about working here," I said.

He frowned and tapped his headphones, signalling he couldn't hear me over the music.

I repeated what I'd said, only louder.

He tipped his head back in a lazy nod of comprehension, then pointed to the bar.

Not ready to give up yet, I approached the bar, where a young man in a black t-shirt with the club's logo on it was sorting bottles and glasses.

"Can you tell me who to talk to about getting a job here?" I asked.

He looked up at me. "Staff or entertainment?"

I paused, wondering if it might be prudent to start as staff. But I was determined to cure my boredom. "Entertainment."

He nodded. "Ever danced before?"

I shook my head.

"Rent is a hundred fifty a night and you're expected to tip the DJ and support staff. You're an independent contractor, so you show up when you want and leave when you want, as long as you pay rent. Do you have a costume?"

Lying, I said I did.

He gave me a stiff nod. "Be here tonight between eight and nine. Bring an I.D. and shoes that are at least five inches. We'll get you a locker. Do you have a stage name?"

"Violet."

Turning around to pick up a case of beer, he muttered. "See you tonight, Violet."

Stunned, I gave him a nervous smile and turned to walk out of the club.

My whole body felt like it was racing. Had I just been hired as a stripper at the first club I walked into? I was pretty sure I had.

Now I had to prepare for my debut. As I walked down the street back toward the bus stop, I pulled out my phone. It struck me that my current situation was laughable and frightening at the same time. And yet I had no intention of reconsidering.

Not knowing what else to look for, I Googled "stripper apparel san francisco" and found a smattering of stores selling what I would need to buy before my first shift. I decided to jump in feet first by purchasing my first pair of stripper shoes. Because I liked the name, I went to Foot Worship, which I discovered was right next to another stripper apparel store.

I walked in and was overwhelmed with the array of shoes before me. Plastic shoes, leather shoes, suede shoes, boots, pumps, studded stilettos, light-up shoes, furry shoes, sparkly shoes, shoes with feathers, shoes with pearls, shoes with huge buckles, pointed heels, heels with locks on the straps. There were shoes of every size, color, shape and persuasion. There were shoes that could only be described as foot torture devices, and shoes that were subtle enough to wear in an office. I was certain I'd find my first pair of stripper shoes here.

I wandered through the aisles, in awe of the ingenuity and sadism of the designers. Most shoes had heels that were far bigger than I thought I could walk in. How did strippers manage to walk around clubs all night and not twist their ankles or fall over?

The salesgirl must have noticed my concern, because she walked up to me, and after the obligatory, "Can I help you?" she asked if I was looking for beginner shoes. Relieved, I said yes.

A bright smile passed over her face, as though helping me find my first pair of shoes was exciting to her.

"Great," she bubbled. "Club shoes?"

I nodded, and she beckoned me over to the front right corner of the store. "Height requirement?"

"Five inches," I said, eyes going wide.

She gave me a reassuring smile and said, "Don't worry, it sounds worse than it is. If you get a shoe with a decent platform, it's more like two or three inches." She pointed to a basic black shoe that had a two inch platform to accompany its large, sturdy pump heel.

It looked intimidating.

"I recommend these for beginners," the saleslady said. "You can't go wrong with a basic pair of Ellies."

I tried them on and was pleasantly surprised to find they were almost as easy to walk in as the tennis shoes I'd worn in. After a few trial laps up and down the aisle to make sure, I bought them and headed next door to by a pair of a lace panties, an outfit to strip out of, and makeup in shades I hadn't worn since Halloween in middle school.

I was ready for my first shift.

I was so nervous and excited, I couldn't eat dinner. I told Justine I was going out that night with some friends from school, and hoped she wouldn't ask about the gym bag I was taking with me. I wasn't planning to get ready at home and take the bus with my false eyelashes and glitter body oil on. That would be absurd. So I went to the bus station, waited for a few minutes for it to arrive, and had an uneventful ride to my first night at the club.

I had taken that same bus hundreds of times, but it felt different that night. i looked around at my fellow passengers, wondering if they could tell something was different about me. Could they tell I was splitting my life into two parts, one I would keep secret from everyone I was close to, and one where my body was on full display for strangers? Could they tell I had six inch heels and a see-through dress in my bag? Did they know by the end of the night I would have writhed against a dozen men whose names I didn't know? Logically, of course they didn't. But my nerves were draining me of my logic, and my heart sped up with fear whenever someone made eye contact, convinced they could see through me. All the clothing in the world wouldn't have been enough.

And yet an hour later, I had donned my sheer dress, heels, and lace panties, glued on my eyelashes and vamped up my hair, and I felt less vulnerable. In the all-but-deserted locker room that smelled like rotting synthetic fruit sprays from Bath & Body Works, I looked at myself in the mirror.

And for the first time, I came face to face with Violet.

She had a nice figure. Round enough in the hips and breasts, angular enough in the shoulders and legs. If I had seen her on the street, I would have given her a once-over. Maybe even a double-take.

The thing about Violet was that nothing was real about her. Her eyes were overdramatic and seemed to take a full second to blink. Her cheekbones were more defined than mine, and her lips appeared bigger under the thick coat of lipstick. Her calves looked harder, given the angle of her heels. Her cleavage, for the time being, was heaving up and forward in a bra that defied the laws of physics. And yet she hadn't crossed over from human to Barbie. She was just the right amount of vixen and girl-next door.

She was money, baby.

After taking off the dress and bra, saving them for my stage show, I ascended the spiral staircase into the closet of a backstage. Seriously, it was miniscule. Nothing needed to be stored there, so there wasn't any use for it other than as a holding place for dancers about to go onstage. To the left was a door that led onto the club floor, which I took now. I wasn't ready for my stage debut yet. I needed to loosen up and get a feel for the night crowd first.

Taking a deep breath, I felt the sure-footed attitude that was Violet flow through me. I put on my smile and opened the door.

The club was much more active than it had been during the day. Every velvet bench and table was occupied, mostly by single men, but a few tables in the center of the floor had groups of young men seated around them. Dancers milled around, eyes sharp like hawks as they did whatever calculations they needed to to find a likely customer. I shivered as I realized the club floor was freezing cold, most likely to keep and the girls' nipples alert and the customers awake as they drank and drooled.

But as I looked around, no men were drooling. They were just kind of staring. Not even in approval or awe. Just staring and sipping. That was kind of a disappointing. I thought about the way Dr. Turner looked at me sometimes, like I was the only thing in the world he wanted in that moment, like I was more attractive than I would ever be able to see.

So maybe I wouldn't find that here. That was okay. I was confident enough to strip in the first place. I didn't need their validation. Right?

I milled around, trying to be inconspicuous as I studied the other girls' costumes and lap dance techniques. It occurred to me I probably should have done more research about lap dancing. But after a few songs, which all seemed to fade out after a certain length of time, I saw that it was just a lot of undulating and pressing your chest and ass against the guy in time to the music.

What really interested me were the girls' faces. Some of them brought the dance into their face; they smiled and playacted beyond the obligatory chatting that preceded a lapdance. You had to get the customer to buy first, after all. All the girls were smiley and bright before the dance, but then when they got up and started working over the guy, some of their faces fell blank. None of them closed their eyes, but they might as well have.

The place was swarming with dancers that were buzzing between customers and the stage door, and I started to worry I wouldn't be able make enough money on dances to pay my club rent for the night. I didn't know how to attract customers, and no one was offering to teach me.

But there was no time like the present to learn. So I started hustling. That's what the girls called it. It felt like a weird, amplified high school social rank system with the girls, and I hadn't even spoken to any of them. But I could tell who the Queen Bees were, and who idolized them. And that probably meant they all knew I was the new girl.

I worked the crowd, spotting a man who looked a bit like Dr. Turner and chatting him up before giving my first dance. Maybe it was the familiar features that made me pick him as my first target. Or maybe I just have a type. All I know is that once he had accepted my dance offer, I realized I had to follow through.

No matter how confident I thought I was, rationalizing that I had no trouble dancing with strangers in clubs or having sex with Dr. Turner for money, I realized about thirty seconds into my first dance that this was different than I imagined it would be. It's one thing to dance with a stranger on a dance floor and find a rhythm together, knowing you can go back to your friends or move away if he starts getting handsy; it's another to know that you are expected to writhe against a stranger for the duration of a three minutes - the DJ conveniently faded every song out after three minutes - and get no reaction whatsoever. When I was having sex with Dr. Turner, I could tell by the way he was grunting or the expression on his face if he liked what I was doing. Now the man I was on top of was just staring at my tits, expressionless in his slouch, unresponsive to even my best hip rolls and booty-ups.

I thought his unresponsiveness was disappointing, but it was welcome compared to the opposite reaction. Since I had successfully given my first dance without incident, I ventured toward someone less familiar. An older man, about fifty, was sitting alone in a booth drinking whiskey on the rocks. He looked decent enough that I could stand a conversation and a dance. I approached him - always from the front, giving him time to appraise my assets as the the message boards had advised me to - and gave him a flirty smile and a wave. I shifted my voice into what I called "stripper voice," about an octave higher and five times airier than any normal female voice. I asked him if I could sit with him, and he gave a stiff nod.

Maybe this wasn't so hard.

Crossing my legs daintily and turning my torso toward him with my best posture, letting him ogle my breasts, I started asking the standard questions. How he was doing tonight, what his name was, what he did for work. When I asked his name, he said Sal, and then asked what mine was. I told him Violet, to which he smirked and said, "Yeah, but what's your _real_ name." I gave him my best coquettish giggle, leaned in, and whispered as though it were a sneaky secret, "Violet."

He huffed and picked up his drink, frustrated by my refusal. I wondered if he actually expected me to tell him my name. Did he think he was special? As far as I could see, there was nothing special about him.

After smoothing things over with a few flirtatious questions and compliments, I asked if he'd like a dance. He nodded and put a twenty on the table. When the current song ended, I stood up and closed the curtain, sliding onto his lap and setting my smile in place for the next three minutes.

I wasn't sure what to do when he started grunting as I rutted against him. His grunts weren't small and clean like Dr. Turner's. They were long and low and vibrated through him into me in the most alarming, unpleasant way. I immediately realized it was worse the an unresponsive customer. At least when the customer was unresponsive, you didn't have to deal with their weird noises and -

Oh god.

I hadn't noticed Sal was wearing sweatpants, which provided almost no resistance for his quick-to-rage hard-on beneath me. Who the fuck wore sweatpants to a strip club?

Apparently the kind who wanted to feel as much friction from the dancers as possible, resulting in a horrific, grunting ejaculation timed precisely to the music, occurring just as I was lifting off his lap to escape.

Grossed out and seriously rethinking my decision to work here, I yanked back the curtain and made a beeline for the stage door.

Even though I hadn't directly touched more than Sal's arms with my bare skin, I felt the immediate urge to shower.

Down in the dressing room, I washed my hands and ran a babywipe over my thighs and breasts. I half considered walking out right then, turning in the money tucked in my garter belt and paying the rest of my house rent out of my pocket for the chance to escape. But at that moment, the leggy blonde woman who had been onstage when I first walked into the club the day before entered the dressing room.

She eyed me, babywipe in hand as she opened her locker. It didn't appear she was going to speak to me as she retrieved a costume, stepping out of the one she had on. Then, without making eye contact, she said with a smirk, "You get stuck with Sweatpant Sal?"

I felt a wave of relief, a validation that what I'd just been through was horrible and other dancers thought so too.

"Yeah," I said, grateful for her sympathy. "It was _so_ gross."

She gave a stiff nod, pulling a pair of bright blue panties on and taking out a matching bra. She was clearly getting ready for her stage dance.

"Don't worry, he wears a condom underneath so there's less mess."

Now I felt even less understood than before. Was that kind of thing normal? I felt my eyes sting like I was about to cry, but I forced the tears away.

"Do you have any-" I swallowed, trying to steady my voice. "Do you have any tips? I'm new here."

"You don't say," the woman mocked.

Burning with anger and disappointment, I turning back to my locker to find my stage dress. I had imagined the other girls would be friendly, but they were anything but. To make matters worse, I would be going onstage after this woman. I would look like an amateur next to her.

Which, of course, I was.

The woman sighed. "Look, I'm not the house mom or anything. But just move slow. Everyone can tell a new girl by the way she dances. It's always too fast. And give it more than one night before you quit."

Grabbing onto her tip like a lifeline, I nodded.

"Thanks," I said. Then, daring, I said, "I'm Violet."

The woman didn't respond, closing her locker. Her eyes flickered to me before she turned and left the locker room. Just as she was about to ascend the stairs, she said, "I'm Summer."

And though it wasn't much, I was grateful that someone had spoken to me.

When it came time for my first stage show, I was shaking. I'd never done this before. At least not naked. I was glad for my disguise, and more grateful for Summer's advice than I could express. As the opening notes to Amy Winehouse's _You Know I'm No Good_ started, I took a breath and walked slowly out into the light, letting Violet do the work for me.

And for those three minutes, Violet sparkled. It was the easiest part of the job so far. I kept my movements syrupy and slow, using the pole minimally, since I didn't know how yet and anything I did with it would look childish compared to Summer. A few men put bills on the edge of the stage or approached and waited for me to extend my garter to them. By the time the song ended, I had refilled my reservoir of confidence, and had no desire to leave.


	4. Shadows of the Night

A/N:Okay, second to last chapter before I move to NYC! I like this one a lot guys, and I hope you will too. Thanks to JJ for being such a good editor and cheerleader, and to Jane for listening to me babble on about my story week after week as I try to work out the details.

Optional soundtrack for this chapter is "Shadows of the Night" by Pat Benetar. I have a cool version up on my Tumblr too.

Trigger warning: attempted sexual assault (Violet)

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**Chapter Four - Shadows of the Night**

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So here's what you missed on Dandelion: Bar!Britt and Santana had crazy drunk sex and then had a super awkward morning-after, so Britt quietly wrote her name and number on a piece of paper on Santana's desk in hopes Santana would call and they could hang out again. Journalist!Santana found out that Lab!Britt blew her off twice to go out with Vance, who was totally dreamy and nice to Brittany until she slept with him and then he disappeared. Violet!Britt worked her first night in a strip club which was kind of awful and kind of awesome, and we still have no idea where Santana is in that strand. And that's what you missed!

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x

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I had just closed the lid of my washing machine at the laundromat and settled into the freezing cold bucket chair to catch up on my text messages and emails when the door opened, letting in a gust of air. I wouldn't have looked up if the person entering hadn't been carrying an obscenely huge laundry bag that caused her to hunch over under its weight, another bag hanging from her hand and pinky finger clinging to a bottle of laundry detergent. She looked like a street person, only she was too polished and showered for that.

My heart raced and I flushed cold. It was Santana.

I slouched down in my seat, unsure what to do. She hadn't called or texted me in the last week, which was a clear indicator she wasn't interested in pursuing anything, despite claiming she'd had a good time. Even if that had been the truth, having a good time with someone was hardly grounds for wanting to date them, or even sleep with them again. There was something clean and final about a one night stand. Clean might be the wrong word, especially given the disarray of Santana's apartment. But the finality of it kept things simple.

I didn't know what to do. I stayed slouched and tried not to look up at her. At least not too often. Once a minute or less. Or every half minute. Not more than every ten seconds. I hoped.

How often was I looking? I didn't want to embarrass myself. Maybe if I stayed still enough, Santana wouldn't notice me. Right? Some people were really unaware of their surroundings. I hoped Santana was one of those people.

Santana spent the next ten minutes sorting her laundry into an entire row of washing machines. She had so much built up laundry, she filled six machines. She drizzled detergent down the line, letting half a capful seep into each bin, then went down the line inserting quarters as though they were slot machines. Only after all the machines were vibrating did she walk over to sit down, purse slung over her shoulder. When she was a few feet away, she stopped suddenly, taken aback.

I willed myself not to look up. If we weren't forced to acknowledge each other, this wouldn't be awkward. Right?

I didn't want any awkwardness. Not any more than we'd had already, at least. I slouched lower in my chair, hoping it didn't look forced, giving Santana permission to ignore me if she wanted.

But she didn't ignore me.

"Brittany?"

I looked up and tried to pretend I was surprised. I don't think I succeeded.

"Hey!"

"Santana," Santana said, pointing to myself. "We met at Jules'."

"Yeah, of course," I said.

Santana seemed to relax at my acknowledgement. But then there was silence. How did one start a conversation with a former one night stand? I decided to try.

"How've you been?"

Santana relaxed enough to sit three chairs down from me.

"Pretty good. Midterms are coming up, so that's a bitch, but... _You_ know."

"Yeah," I said, as though I had a clue about what journalism midterms entailed.

"How are you?" Santana asked.

"Great," I said. "Just working and hanging out with my room mate."

"No neuroscience?"

I was surprised that she remembered I had a degree in neuroscience. It was nice to know she had retained some information about me.

"No, no neuroscience," I said with an amused smile. "Just killing brain cells one drink at a time."

I realized how bad that sounded as soon as I said it, so I added, "I mean the customers' brain cells. Not mine."

Santana gave me a funny look, not sure what to say.

I felt embarrassment creep up my neck into my face. "Not that I want to kill their brain cells..."

She gave a forced giggle and leaned over to take something out of her purse, drawing a book into her lap. I took a breath, inhaling discomfort and the residual lint that clouds all laundromats, settling into the tension of sitting for the next half hour in painfully awkward silence. From all the talk I heard at work about one night stands, none of the guys ever mentioned awkwardness this intense.

But then Santana looked up at me and said, "I'm sorry I didn't call."

I didn't know what to think. On the one hand, Santana had wanted to call me. Possibly. If she was being truthful. But on the other hand, something hadn't been quite enough to push her to do it. Maybe I wasn't compelling enough.

"It's okay," I shrugged. "I didn't call you either."

Santana nodded, not acknowledging the fact that we both knew I couldn't have called because I didn't have her number.

We sat in silence, me fidgeting with my phone as Santana read her textbook. After an excruciating few minutes, she turned suddenly. "I did mean to," she said, words rushed and anxious.

I looked up.

"Really. I did," she said, looking at me with determination. "Sorry."

I shrugged. "It's okay."

Santana pursed her lips, unsure. Then she nodded and turned back to her textbook. We sat without talking for another few minutes, the whirring and spinning of the machines emulating my nerves as I tried to figure out what to say. The machines seemed to grow louder as my heart rate picked up, realizing my opportunity to talk to Santana was growing shorter by the minute.

I debated asking Santana out then and there. It wouldn't be so bad, right? The worst she could do was say no. Which, arguably, was pretty bad. But it couldn't be worse than sitting in awkward silence while our laundry spun and sudsed. But I wasn't sure I had the gall. So I opted for lighter conversation.

"You have a lot of laundry," I said.

Santana seemed startled, then embarrassed. "Oh... Yeah. I never do it, even though I live upstairs. Then I don't have any clothes and I have to do like five loads."

"Six," I said before realizing what I'd said.

"What?"

"Six loads."

"Oh..." Santana looked away and I couldn't read her face.

I flushed with embarrassment as I realized I'd just admitted to watching Santana sort her laundry, her practiced pouring if the detergent and insertion of quarters. I'd also admitted acknowledging Santana's presence when Santana walked in, but not greeting her, which made me look awkward and peepish.

"It's okay," I said, anxious to make up for my faux pas. "My record is eight loads."

"Really."

"Yeah. After Girl Scout camp."

Santana gave me a polite smile, then looked back at her book.

It was odd, sitting next to someone who was kind of a stranger, but also knew what I looked like naked and what face I made when I came. That is, if she could remember. Who knew what Santana remembered. She'd seemed more coherent than me, but I had been too drunk to be a good judge of that. I wished that I had slowed down the pace of our drinking at Jules' and just spent time with her. Because she was really beautiful and kind and witty. And smart. And beautiful. Did I say that already? Santana was really beautiful.

My tension grew as the washers spun quicker. I felt my pulse pick up as they whirred, spinning the dirt and grime out of our clothes. I realized that the outfit I'd been wearing when I met Santana was in the washer, getting whatever sweat and lady juices we'd worked up washed out. It was sad that something like my night with Santana could happen and a week later, there was no trace of it.

I wished Santana would talk. Small talk about the weather or her exams or the latest headline in The Chronicle. Anything to not sit in silence and let me spin. I wondered if Santana was embarrassed or overwhelmed or indifferent. Did she feel anything about sitting there with me? Because I felt everything. Hot with embarrassment and attraction, cold and dizzy with nerves, and weary from thinking too hard.

"Did you know that laundromats used to be attached to bars?"

Santana looked up from her textbook, startled. "What?"

"In the seventies. That's where my grandma met her second husband."

Santana nodded slowly. "That's... interesting."

The way she said it made me feel crazy for bringing up something so random. To me it wasn't random. I had been thinking about how awkward I felt in the laundromat and how I should have brought something to do, and how me and Santana had had a few drinks before the hooked up, and how it would be nice to have a drink right now to stop my nerves from buzzing so crazily. I just hadn't said any of that to Santana, so I ended up sounding stupid.

"I was just thinking it'd be nice if they still did," I said. I shrugged and slumped down.

Then I spotted a magazine curled under a chair across the room and was relieved. I hopped up and retrieved it and sat down to read it. I flipped pages blindly before I noticed Santana was watching me.

"Do you like cars?"

I was confused. "I guess."

There was a pause before Santana said, "I was just asking because of the magazine."

I looked down, closing the magazine to see it was _Automotive Today_. I felt ridiculous now. "Oh... I just wanted something to read."

Santana leaned over and reached into her bag, pulling out a copy of _Nylon_. "Try that," she said. "It's my favorite."

Being handed a copy of Santana's favorite magazine felt like being given a picture of her as child. I was certain I'd be able to learn something secret about her in the pages, something that would help me figure out why she was the way she was. Why she was so beautiful and so friendly but at the same time totally closed off. Even during sex. All the power and effort she had put into making me feel good made her mysterious and untouchable. She was a maze I wanted to explore.

I timidly opened the magazine, being careful not to crease the onionskin pages or dog-ear the corners. I looked at each image, the rich hues of the ink, scouring every word for clues. Santana's magazine smelled like she did: rich and polished and covered in fabric softener. I studied each page, curious. I figured out that Santana had a secret appreciation for art, and a not so secret appreciation for fashion and beauty. But the magazine was offbeat and edgy, hipster without acknowledging its own hipsterness, with none of the pomp or elitism or snobbery. Well, maybe there was some snobbery.

As I read on, I only grew more confused.

"Your laundry's beeping," Santana said, gesturing with her book towards the machine.

I'd been so engrossed in the magazine that I'd tuned out my surroundings. I'd tuned out Santana in an effort to understand Santana. Maybe I was as self-indulgent as Santana's magazine.

I hopped up, carefully putting the magazine in the hollow of the chair that was warm from my behind, and got up. I removed my clothes from the washer and put them into my hamper, the stiff wetness of the material heavy in my arms.

Now I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to leave, but I hadn't brought enough change to use the dryer. I liked to hang dry my clothes, since it was free and better for the planet. But I didn't want to leave Santana without saying something. I balanced the basket against my hip for a minute. Santana was bent over her book and didn't realize I was standing awkwardly in front of her.

I decided I just had to leave. Santana hadn't called me, and lurking around the laundromat with a basket of wet clothes was strange, even for me. I walked over and picked up my purse.

"Thanks for letting me read your magazine," I said quietly.

Santana looked up. "Oh, you're leaving?"

I nodded. "I like to let Mr. Sun do the rest," I said, tilting my head towards the increasingly heavy basket of wet laundry.

Santana nodded, letting my nursery rhyme language slide.

"It's good for the earth and stuff," I said, looking at the chipped tiles below my feet. "Plus my roommate is gone this weekend, so I can hang my underwear up and she won't care." I willed myself to stop talking as I heard the strange things I was saying. Why was I talking about my underwear? I supposed it shouldn't be a big deal, since Santana had previously removed a pair of my underwear. But it still felt strange.

But Santana smiled. "Oh, okay."

I gave her a strained smile and turned to go. "Good luck with your laundry."

"Yeah, you too," Santana said.

And I left, feeling myself get heavier with each step.

Santana hadn't wanted to talk to me. I wasn't interesting or sexy or mysterious enough. I supposed I should be content to enjoy the weather and opportunity to finish doing my laundry in peace, without having to think of something interesting or sexy or mysterious to say.

I walked home, the uphill trek always worse than I remembered due to the heavy basket I now had to hold with two hands to stay steady. I walked upstairs and set it down, hands red and aching from the effort.

As I was hanging up my clothesline, I heard my phone chime in my purse. As soon as I had checked that the knot was secured to the coat hook in the closet and the other end tied firmly to the curtain rod, I fished out my phone and read the message. There was a message from a 210 area code number at I didn't recognize.

_Do you want to get a drink with me later?_

A second message buzzed through as I frowned, confused about who the message was from.

_This is Santana by the way. And all laundromats should have bars._

I felt myself get dizzy in the best way as I warmed and smiled. Santana really _had_ meant to call. Or text. I typed out a quick _Hi! Sure!_ and pressed _Send_.

Santana answered _Great! Lime at 9?_

_Sure!_

I tucked my phone in my pocket and grinned the entire time I hung my laundry. Maybe there was something exciting about me after all.

A few hours later we were settled into our booth at Lime. She smiled at me and we clinked glasses before gazing at each other over the rims of our drinks. She looked even more beautiful than when I'd met her. Now I knew what she looked like naked too, which made my eyes flit down to her cleavage and follow her when she got up to use the bathroom. Well, I mean, I _kind_ of knew what she looked like naked. We'd been pressed close together and I'd been more drunk than I thought I was, so it was a bit blurry.

I wasn't sure how to start the conversation, so I asked her more about school. She shrugged and let out a frustrated sigh.

"I have to work so many jobs to just stay afloat, I don't feel like I can focus on anything I actually like. Like writing. I end up whoring myself out to anyone that will pay me to string words together."

"So you're a journalistic prostitute?"

"You know what we say... writing is like sex. First you do it for love, then you do it for friends, then you do it for money."

"Do you still enjoy it?"

"Sex or journalism?"

"Yes."

Santana laughed, not quite as fatigued this time. "I suppose."

I raised my eyebrows and my coffee mug at the same time, indicating I was doubtful. "If I asked someone to have sex with me and they said 'I suppose' I would doubt their sincerity."

Santana nodded, admitting she had lost her passion for writing. "It's not as glamorous as I thought it'd be."

"Nothing ever is."

"It's hard to feel like I'm struggling to survive in a dying, underappreciated profession. No one told me that was how it was going to be."

I contemplated, running my fingertip around the ring of my drink. "No one thinks about that part when we're doing something for love, huh?"

Santana sighed. "I thought I loved it. But the money part kind of ruins it."

"Do you think there's a happy middle ground somewhere?"

"Haven't found it yet." Santana sighed. "If I could pay my bills with words, I'd be fine."

It was disheartening to see Santana write off her dreams so easily. I gave her a sad smile, wishing she hadn't resigned herself to journalistic whoredom so readily. "I'm sure you're a good writer," I said, grasping at straws. "I'd read your column."

Santana gave me a doubtful look. "Do you even read the paper?"

"Well, no, but I would if there were interesting articles like that instead of news stories about everything that's wrong."

Santana gave me a steady nod.

"I think we should just call the Chronicle 'San Francisco What's Wrong.'" I said. "It'd be more honest advertising."

"I tried to do a piece on honest advertising. My professor said no periodical would want to read it."

I sighed. "Well maybe newspapers aren't what you need to be doing."

"What I need to be doing is paying the rent on my studio."

I gave her a sad smile and she changed the subject.

Once I felt the tingling warmth of the alcohol start to relax me, everything flowed. The drinks kept flowing too, until I was in that happy, giggly haze of Santana and alcohol. I didn't know which was more powerful.

She talked more about journalism school and her undergrad and her experience running Bay to Breakers last year. With a smirk I asked her if she'd run naked and she returned my wicked expression, but then said no, her boobs were not for public consumption. I felt a little special that I'd been permitted to not only view, but touch them.

"Plus," she said, setting her third glass down in the table a bit harder than she intended, "it's always the people you don't want to see naked that decide to go Full Monty at Bay to Breakers."

I agreed and we talked about the Folsom Street Fair, Outside Lands, and Carnaval.

And then I asked about Pride. Despite having had three drinks, she seemed to stiffen.

"I've never been," she said.

My jaw dropped, incredulous. "What?" I squawked. "How is that possible? It's the best party the city has!"

She shrugged and looked down at the table. "Not my scene."

I was mystified. "Didn't any of your girlfriends ever make you go?" I asked, trying to compliment her with my assumption she'd had lots of girlfriends.

Her eyes stayed fixed in the table as she shook her head. "Nope." The word was final and even with two drinks in me, I knew better than to push the issue.

Santana turned and gestured to a waiter, lifting her empty cup and holding up a peace sign, signaling we each wanted another. I was already feeling buzzed, but I wasn't ready to go home. It was nice to let loose with someone besides Justine.

She turned back to me and asked about my work, my family, and all the polite topics we'd already covered in our first meeting. She wasn't repeating questions, but it seemed she was taking a step back from me. Not wanting to lose our progress, I changed the subject to the latest political happenings, and that really got her talking. She seemed to almost ignite, she was so impassioned by the subject and the booze.

Before I knew it, it was midnight, we were drunk, and I was asking her back to my place. She grinned and we paid out our tab and made the brisk walk back to my house. I didn't even care about the laundry hanging up because I was so excited to have sex with her again.

This time I wasn't as drunk, and we went a little slower. I got to see more of her body in motion, which made me unbelievably turned on. Everything about her was supple and blooming and focused on me, which was overwhelming. She was just as untameable as she had been last time, and I didn't have to talk myself into anything. It was good, and by the time we both finished, I didn't feel more than a little buzzed.

I snuggled into her side and kissed her sweaty shoulder, watching her chest rise and fall, naked before me.

"I liked that," I said, loose from the orgasm and the remnants of the alcohol. "You're a great date."

She sniffed and said nothing for a minute, which didn't bother me. She was probably tired. I felt like she'd exerted twice as much energy as I had. There was something animalistic about the way she approached sex that was invigorating and thrilling without being too scary. She was just a bombshell. I considered myself lucky to have been smart enough to invite her into the bar to get Tina's purse the other week.

But then she sniffed again and rolled out from under me. "I gotta go," she said.

Falling into the spot in the sheets where she'd been, I felt something drop in my chest. Not heavy, just disappointed.

"You can stay if you want. I make good pancakes," I offered.

She stood from the bed, reaching for her bra and shirt. "I have stuff I have to do," she mumbled.

I frowned. There was no way she had stuff to do at one in the morning.

She must have sensed my disappointment, because as soon as she had her top on, she turned and pecked me on the cheek, saying, "I'll call you soon, 'kay?"

I nodded without smiling and watched as she went about picking up her pants and putting them on, then collecting her purse and keys. She gave me a strained smile as she left, closing my bedroom door behind her before letting herself out of the apartment.

That was not how I'd imagined our night would end.

* * *

x

* * *

I slunk out of the hotel and took the bus back home. I hadn't felt so used or humiliated in years. I could only imagine what Vance would tell my boss. He had seemed like the perfect gentleman, yet this morning was further proof that I was a terrible judge of character. If there was anyone in the world I had thought wouldn't bang and bolt, it was Vance. But I didn't know anything anymore. For the time being, I was going to give up.

I hoped Justine would be gone for the day, grocery shopping or flea marketing, but I had no such luck. I tried to be quiet as I closed the front door, but no sooner had it shut, Justine's voice sprang from the other room.

"Brittany Pierce, you little minx, get your ass in here and tell me all about it!"

I didn't respond and had made it almost all the way to the bathroom before she appeared in her doorway.

"Britt?" she asked, seeming to realize something was wrong.

Without making eye contact, I dropped my purse on the floor and said, "I don't want to talk about it." Then I shut myself in the bathroom and took a long shower, trying to scrub the awfulness off me. I didn't feel dirty, but I didn't want any reminders of Vance on me. Afterwards I sealed myself in my room and burrowed deep into my bed, hoping it would swallow me up. And that's when the tears came. They leaked down the creases of my eyes into the pillow, puddling and refusing to dry.

I was relieved Justine let me be for a while. Sometimes she's so intent on teasing or prying, she doesn't pick up on other peoples' feelings. But she did this time. I lay in bed long enough for the light to shift to where it shone in a narrow strip right onto my face, almost blinding me as my tears magnified the light. I was faced with the dilemma of waiting for the sun to move or getting up to rearrange the curtains.

I had almost decided just to lay in the cruel jeering of the sun forever when a soft knock sounded. When I didn't respond, Justine knocked again. When I still didn't respond, she said softly, "Can I come in, Britt?"

"Okay," I mumbled, wiping my face. I knew she would be able to see I was crying, but I didn't want to look too awful.

She walked in, footsteps cautious and slow as something rattled in her hand. I could see in my closet mirror she was holding a plate and a steaming mug with a spoon sticking out of it.

"I thought you might be hungry," she said in an unusually gentle voice. She put the dishes on my desk and sat at the foot of my bed. After a long moment of silence, she put her hand on the mound of my feet and asked, "B, what happened?"

"Nothing," I mumbled. "I'm just stupid."

She frowned, unaccustomed to hearing me talk so negatively about myself. It was hard to justify calling myself stupid when I had a Master's in neuroscience. But the kind of intelligence I was obviously lacking wasn't what had gotten me that degree.

"Did Vance do anything you didn't want him to?" she asked, her voice tinged with protectiveness.

I shook my head, feeling like my brain was rattling in my head from crying. She was asking if I'd been coerced or raped, which I hadn't. I'd consented to everything. And yet I still felt like something had been taken from me.

Justine let out a small sigh of relief. "That's good," she said.

There was a long moment of silence as she looked around the room, not wanting to leave me alone, but not knowing what to say given my unresponsiveness. So I caved. She was worried, and I felt awkward. Even though I was ashamed, I figured I could tell her why.

"When I woke up this morning, he and his suitcase were gone," I said.

Her face fell in a look of dramatic sympathy. "Oh, honey..." she said. "That _sucks_."

I bit my lip as I felt it start to tremble. Then, feeling too many tears pushing forward to be held back, I covered my face with the edge of the comforter and cried.

"I'm so stupid," I blubbered, shoulders jerking as I started to sob. "I shouldn't have thrown myself at him like that."

"Britt..." Justine cooed. "Wanting sex is human."

I scrunched the comforter over my eyes to absorb the heat that was spreading through my face.

"You didn't do anything wrong. He's the asshole for not seeing that you're worth having breakfast with. Really. Don't let him make you feel bad."

"It was too soon!" I insisted. "I freaked him out, I know I did! I might as well have suggested baby names or honeymoon locations."

"He wanted to sleep with you too, Britt," she assured. "If he's not man enough to face you afterwards, that's on him. Fuck him."

"I _did_ fuck him," I cringed, wanting to laugh, but coming up short.

Justine patted my feet and said, "Good for you. Was it good?"

I let out a gasp of hopeless frustration. "That's not the point."

Feeling too overwhelmed and upset to continue talking about Vance and the hope he'd taken away this morning, my thoughts drifted to my first boyfriend Damon and how we'd spent our weekend mornings. Thinking about that made me remember how something had always been a little empty in my chest since. I missed being wanted.

Crushing loneliness creeped up my chest into my face and I shuddered, trying to stave off more sobs. But it didn't work.

"_I feel like I'll never be loved again_," I squeaked, letting another wave of crying rattle through me.

"Britt," Justine said, lowering the pitch of her voice. She paused, squeezing my leg through my blankets. "Look at me."

She waited until I pulled the covers down far enough for her to see me.

"You're crazy," she said. "And I mean that in the best possible way. You're crazy because you don't see everything you have to offer. You're smart. You're pretty. You're funny. You're sexy as hell."

I rolled my eyes, unable to believe I was sexy. Vance had seen me at my sexiest and decided to pass.

"You are," Justine insisted, giving my leg an extra squeeze. "And you have such a big heart. Someday someone wonderful will be overwhelmed by how much you love them."

My throat was too tight to say anything in response, so I sniffed, feeling my limbs relax from the seizing of my sobs. I let out a shaky exhale, grateful for Justine and how much she believed in me. I lifted my arm, gesturing that I wanted her to hug me. She smiled and leaned down, placing her head on my shoulder, rubbing one of my arms.

"_Thank you_," I squeaked.

I felt Justine smile against my shoulder and she said, "Anytime." Then, sitting up, she said, "Want to go somewhere for dinner tonight? We can guy bash until you feel better."

I gave her a fatigued smile and was about to decline, saying I'd rather stay in, when my phone rang in the hall. She walked over to my purse and fished it out. A brief, smug smile crossed her face before she handed me the phone. She didn't need to say anything for me to know why she was grinning like that.

"Shit," I muttered, feeling shame course through me again. I put the phone down on the bed, wanting to avoid the call. I didn't want to face Santana after our run-in the night before.

Justine raised her hand and pointed a finger at me. "Brittany Susan Pierce, you answer that right now or I'm using the itchy soap in your laundry for the next month."

I pouted at Justine and she raised her eyebrows in warning.

Sighing, I slid the call open. "Hi, Santana."

Justine mouthed _Good girl_ as she stood and left the room, closing the door behind her.

"Hey Brittany!" Santana chirped. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything. I was just calling to see if you were still up for hanging out."

I was relieved that Santana seemed to have recovered from her bout of cattiness. I was too tired to play games. I must have sounded like I'd been crying when I said, "Sure."

There was a pause and Santana said, with sudden concern, "You okay?"

I sighed, sitting up. "Yeah."

"Okay..." Santana said, cautious like she wasn't buying it. "Are you sure? Because we can reschedule."

"Um..." I looked around the room, wondering if there was any way to tell her I was tired and ashamed and would have been content to stay in bed alone for the next month. But I had already blown her off twice, so I said, "Yeah, we can hang out. Something low-key?"

"Sure," she said. "Tacos and beer?"

I felt myself warm with relief. Tacos and beer sounded like exactly what I needed. Nothing fancy. Just something good to eat and something to take the edge off. "Perfect," I said.

"Awesome," she said, and I could hear her perking up. "I can't wait."

A few hours later I had enlisted Justine's help in making myself presentable. I was impressed with Justine's restraint for not exploring even one of the possible entendres available to her when I told her Santana and I were going out for _tacos_. She just smiled and reminded me that our code word was _cupcake_, and if I texted her about cupcakes, she would call with a "crisis" and get me out of an uncomfortable situation. I gave her a long hug before I left, steeling myself to be kind and apologetic to Santana.

Santana was cheerful and chatty when we met up. She talked about the run she'd gone on that morning, and an interesting article she'd read in the New York Times. I listened and tried to not drag her down with my gloominess. But I guess I wasn't as successful as I'd hoped.

"You seem a little down," she said, tilting her head with a pout as our waiter placed two beers on the table.

I was embarrassed that I was still letting Vance affect me. I didn't want him to have that power. But the truth was I was sad he'd been a dead end.

I gave a fatigued shrug. "I didn't have the best night last night," I said, trying to be vague and avoiding telling Santana I'd slept with Vance.

Santana gave a nod of understanding, then looked down at the table for a moment. "I know what you mean." She raised her eyebrows as she lifted her beer to her lips, then set it down and looked around the restaurant.

My mind flashed back to the leggy blonde woman Santana had been with at Rose Pistola. Had the same thing that had happened to me happened to Santana? Had we both had disappointing dates? It seemed unlikely. No one in their right mind would do that to her.

"I'm sorry," I said.

I wanted to follow up with a comment about making sure tonight was better, but I didn't want to insinuate we were on a date or anything, so I just let it go.

Santana echoed the same heavy shrug I'd given a moment earlier. Then she brightened and looked up at me. "Hey, I have an idea," she said. "We both need a laugh, right?"

I nodded.

She gave a perkier shrug, as if to rouse her spirits. "San Francisco is _the_ place for live comedy. There's a regular Sunday night show at Punchline that starts in an hour. Want to go?"

Maybe it was the way Santana suggested it, with such hope and spontaneity, or maybe because I knew that going home and hiding in my bed wasn't the best thing for me, I agreed.

By the time we walked out of Punchline, legs wobbling as our stomachs ached with laughter, I was floating. The show had been funny, to the point where we'd been doubled over laughing. But I knew that being around Santana and her confidence, receiving her undivided attention, was what made me feel smoothed out from all the crumpling Vance had done.

Something amazing about Santana was that she was unapologetic for liking what she liked. She liked girls and was open about it. She loved journalism and hated the politics of the job. She was a self-made woman and made sure everyone knew that. There was very little she was ashamed of. Considering the unbearable weight of the shame I had felt all day, I was desperate to know her secret. Maybe if I spent more time with her, I'd be like that. Maybe I wouldn't be so shy around Dr. Turner.

I started to deflate at the thought of Dr. Turner. Had Vance told him anything yet? Was tomorrow going to be horrible? The thought of bringing messy sexual gossip into my lustless, professional, analytical workplace made me want to call in sick forever.

My deflation must have been noticeable, because Santana turned to me with a concerned expression.

"You okay?"

I sighed. She was so nice, and had been making such an effort to cheer me up all night. I felt I owed her at least a vague explanation.

"I'm just dreading going to work tomorrow."

"More than usual?"

"Yeah."

There was silence for a moment as our footsteps sounded on the pavement below us as we walked to her car.

"Why?" she asked, cautious.

"I did something dumb and I'm afraid my boss will find out. I just..." I sighed again. "I never seem to do anything right around him. He makes me feel awkward."

Santana's steps seemed to slow and her face remained expressionless. All the humor we'd been filled with minutes before vanished as we walked up a hill away from the lights and noise.

Then she took a breath and paused before saying, "Brittany, I need to tell you something about that article I wrote about you."

I tensed. She seemed to be heading toward a confession. But the article had seemed neutral enough. She used my quotes and explained my job. Had I missed something?

"Do you know why you were picked to be interviewed?"

Now I was on edge. I shook my head.

"A few months ago Dr. Turner's company went through a sexual harassment lawsuit. A PR consultant advised him to have one of his female employees interviewed for my column. Which... led to you."

I was stunned. I didn't want to believe what Santana was saying.

But as I thought about my boss, I realized that she could be right. Maybe. When I got to Turner Research Institute the year before, there had been one other female employee, Katie, the receptionist I'd had to fill in for. A few months ago, she had disappeared without explanation. I tried to think of other reasons for her disappearance. Maybe she'd just wanted something less boring. Maybe she'd fallen in love and moved across the country. Maybe she'd won the lottery.

But then I thought about all the little things about Dr. Turner I had forgiven because he was smart and handsome and successful. As they started adding up - the inappropriate touches, the demotion to phones, the request to date his nephew - I felt myself sinking further.

As if knowing that what she had told me was upsetting, Santana patted my arm.

"Lots of people work for sleazeballs. I just figured you should know who you're working for, you know? I don't want him to take advantage of how much you like him."

I nodded, feeling my body simultaneously cringe and droop towards the concrete.

But for some reason - goddamnit, Brittany - I felt the need to defend him.

"He's not like that. He wouldn't... he wouldn't do that. I'm sure it was a misunderstanding. He's a good boss."

Santana bit her lips and gave a disbelieving bob of her head. She knew I didn't believe what I was saying but wasn't going to call me on it.

We reached her car and she clicked the locks open. I climbed up into the cab of the SUV, my heaviness requiring effort. I sank back into the seat, grateful that Santana turned on music. She asked how to get to my house and I gave fatigued directions.

When she pulled up in front of my apartment, she put the car in park but kept the engine running. She gave me an apologetic smile as I unclicked my seatbelt and thanked her for trying to cheer me up. I was about to say goodnight when she said, "Brittany?"

"Yeah?" I paused with my hand on the door and looked at her.

She took a breath, avoiding eye contact as she said. "I know you're hung up on Dr. Turner. But... I think you should take a long, hard look at him and ask yourself if you like _him_ or the _idea_ of him. Because, I mean, who wouldn't want to be with a handsome, intelligent, wealthy man?"

"You," I said, trying to break the tension that was seeping into every crevice of Santana's car.

Santana gave me a brief, appreciative chuckle. "True. But spend some time thinking about who he is versus who you want him to be. Because he's done some pretty crappy stuff. Maybe it'd be nice to be less into him than you are."

I nodded, the suspicion that Santana was right starting to unsettle me.

"And then, once you've figured that out,' Santana said, uncharacteristically hesitant. "Ask yourself the same thing about me." Her eyes flickered around the windshield before she forced herself to make eye contact as she continued. "I know you don't like the idea of dating a woman because it's harder than dating a man." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "But, that aside, I think you like _me_. And if that's the case, then it's only fair for me to tell you... I like you too."

I was startled, though I realized I shouldn't be. I knew Santana liked me.

"And not just the idea of you," she added. "I like the whole package."

I sat still, warming with embarrassment at Santana's compliment and frozen with surprise at her bravery. But it shouldn't have surprised me. I knew Santana was brave.

Santana gave me a smile that looked a little sad, as if she was certain her words were falling on deaf ears. "If you ever get over Dr. Turner, I would really love to have a shot with you."

I was unsure how to respond. But Santana put the car back in gear, signalling she wasn't expecting a response. I felt an ounce of relief. I needed time.

"Have a good night, Brittany," she said, more polite than usual, though it was genuine.

I gave her a nervous smile as I collected my purse from the floor. I was so flustered by what she'd said, I couldn't formulate a response. So I settled for saying _thank you_ and _goodnight_.

I got to work the next morning, stomach clenched with dread as I avoided Dr. Turner at all costs. I shuffled into my desk and buried myself in the drone of data entry. For once, I was glad for the monotony. There was nothing stimulating about my job, but at least there was not much that could go wrong and throw me off more than I already was.

The morning passed without incident, and when I had to walk by Dr. Turner's office on the way to the copier, he didn't look up. I didn't hear anything from him all morning until he called me in to ask about a report I was supposed to turn in by the end of the week. I assured him it was going well, and he nodded, still not making eye contact.

"Oh, by the way, how was your lunch with Vance last week?" he asked, threading his hands behind his head as he leaned back in his chair, finally looking up.

I cringed. Did he know what had happened and was poking around for information? Was he purposely making me uncomfortable? After what Santana had told me, I wasn't sure what he was capable of. I just knew that I found him more confusing.

But he'd only asked me about my lunch with Vance, not what had happened over the weekend, so I gave a strained smile and said, "It was nice." Hopefully that answer would suffice and he wouldn't ask about Vance again.

"Must have been," Dr. Turner said, smirking as he pointed to a vase of flowers in the corner. "Those arrived for you a little while ago."

I looked back and forth between Dr. Turner and the flowers, confused. Had Vance sent me flowers at work? Was that his lame apology for making me feel cheap and disposable? If so, it wasn't going to work.

But I couldn't snub the flowers in front of Dr. Turner. That would be suspicious. So I feigned delight - unsuccessfully - as I walked to the shelf where the vase was resting. I picked them up and gave Dr. Turner another strained smile.

"You play your cards right, you could end up dating a Turner," Dr. Turner said, giving me a stomach-turning wink.

And with that single comment, I knew that Dr. Turner was just as much of an asshole as Santana thought he was.

I avoided eye contact as I hurried away from Dr. Turner and his sliminess.

When I got back to my desk, I debated tossing the bouquet in the trash. But I saw a card tucked between a tulip and a spriggy purple thing and had to know what pitiful apology Vance had made. I needed more reasons to be angry because my anger was helping me climb out of my shame. I opened the card and read the typed message.

_For the prettiest, smartest girl in San Francisco. I hope you have a wonderful day._

There was no name attached to it, but I knew immediately the flowers weren't from Vance. If he was going to send me flowers, it would be to apologize, not to wish me a wonderful day. Plus he'd be sure to write his name so he'd get credit for the effort.

There was only one person who could have sent those flowers. Blushing and smiling to myself, I took out my phone and texted her.

_Thank you :)_

Santana immediately wrote back, _For what?_

Y_ou know, silly,_ I typed. _You really cheered me up._

_Any time :)_ she wrote back. _Want to hang out later this week?_

I paused, not sure what she was really asking. If she'd asked me out to dinner, I would have assumed she was asking me on a date, which I wouldn't know how to respond to. I had been stupid enough to let a single daisy blind me to Vance's flaws. What flaws would an entire bouquet cover for Santana?

But she hadn't asked me out on a date. She'd asked to hang out, just like we'd hung out twice before. Aside from my nerves and the bombshell she'd dropped on me about Dr. Turner, I'd had a great time every time I'd seen her.

So I wrote back, _Sure_.

As I slipped my phone back into my purse, I felt good enough to hold my head up high through the rest of my day.

* * *

x

* * *

Stripping isn't like virginity or getting a tattoo. Virginity is a horrible thing to use as a metaphor, because it is always used to imply you are irreversibly changed by an experience. That is a lie. After my first time, I was still the same girl. I still loved the people I loved and wanted the same things I had wanted before. I didn't feel older or better or wiser. I felt a temporary ache between my legs and a stronger bond with Damon, who took me out to breakfast in the morning like it was a regular Saturday. Because it was. Nothing had changed.

But people have this false belief that once you strip, you're permanently marred. Strippers can no longer reach the pinnacle of human accomplishment or be good mothers or wives or employees. All of that is bullshit. I am still very much the same girl and I still want the same things. I deserve them too. Inside, I know I am good and strong and worthy.

The thing is, the customers seemed to be doing everything they could to tear down that sense of strength and worthiness. On my second night, I ventured toward a table of young men, probably younger than me, who were all wearing polo shirts and khakis and drinking Stella Artois. I figured they would be likely buyers. I chatted them up for a few minutes, asking where they went to college - it was a fair assumption - and trying to boost their egos by subtly feeling their muscles and giggling at their "witty" comments. Some sort of nonverbal bro conversation happened after about five minutes, because one guy seemed to be the chosen bro for the night when his buddies all chipped in to buy him a dance. The bill was folded into my garter and when the next song started, I rose.

And then the boys who were so clean-cut and charming became apes. They turned on their friend, jeering when he made any expression of approval or appreciation of me, or dared to showed any sign of arousal. When I realized he was hard, I did my best to shield that from his friends, though I wasn't exactly excited about it. I felt bad for him. Who goes into a strip club and them teases their buddy for enjoying the entertainment?

When their taunting turned to include me, I wanted to kick the other guys in the balls.

"See if she'll let you touch her boobs, Leo."

"She's totally his type. Tits aren't as big as April's though."

"Maybe if you juice her up she'll rub one out for you. Be a nice change from your hand, huh?"

"You like those thick thighs, buddy?"

I couldn't believe these beer-gutted buffoons were critiquing my body as though my nakedness made me deaf. Three minutes had never seemed so long. I tried to ignore their juvenile jeering, but it was impossible. I closed my eyes, giving myself a second to calm down, but it only make their teasing louder. I felt like a snake trapped in a basket being poked with a stick, forced to press against the confines of my captivity with serpentine grace until the song blissfully faded out and I could rise from servitude and escape.

I decided to steer clear of the younger customers for a while. I saw a middle-aged man alone in a booth toward the back, and after taking a moment to breathe and let the gross entitlement of the frat boys slick off my glittery skin, I approached him with my subtle prey-stalking stripper walk. I slid into his booth and crossed my legs.

"Hey," I cooed. "How's your night going?"

He answered my breasts with a vague, "Not bad."

When I offered him a dance after a few minutes of small talk, he nodded and put a twenty dollar bill on the table. I gave him my best delighted giggle, which sounded fake but never seemed to bother the customers, and stood to close the curtain around us.

Nine Inch Nail's _Closer_ started throbbing through the speakers. It was a good tempo for my "new girl" moves. After my first few undulations against him, I saw his hands fidgeting on the seat. Then, though he knew he wasn't supposed to, he raised them to hold my thighs, creeping up toward my ass.

"Ah, ah, ah!" I admonished, giving him a playful waggle of my finger. "No touching." He exhaled in frustration and I leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "You know you come here for the teasing."

I leaned back and winked before turning around to grind my ass against him.

I didn't particularly like giving lap dances, at least not the physical sensation of it. It's strange to wriggle against a stranger. But there was one part I did like, and that was how my reservoir of sexual confidence was filled by the men I danced for. Every flash of tongue against their dry lips, every adjustment of their hips and legs while I danced, every wide-eyed stare told me that I was desirable. I filled their fantasy, and in doing so, had become superhuman. I had exceeded the capacity of a real woman in their eyes. And to some degree, I believed it.

But not being a real woman had its limits. Many men thought I didn't have boundaries. So when he placed his hands on my thighs again, I rolled my eyes, glad he couldn't see.

"Seems you've got some wandering hands there," I said, trying to walk the line of playful and warning as I turned around. "What are we gonna do about that?"

I removed his hands from my body and set them on the bench with a bit of force, letting him know I wasn't going to play around. He complied for a minute, but as the bass of the song became more urgent, his hands lifted up to my legs again, gripping me _tight_.

I slid my hands under his wrists and tried to splatula his hands off, but he only held me tighter, pressing me down hard against his groin as his fingers dug into my ass. His face set in a determined frown as he lifted forward out of his chair and started attacking my neck with his whiskey-scented mouth. His tongue slid over my neck like a predatory slug as he started jerking his pelvis into me.

I panicked. I was alone in a booth with an aggressive customer. No one could see me. I doubted anyone would be able to hear me if I screamed. So I did the only thing I could think of.

I took his throat in my hand and pushed his head back against the wall as hard as I could, being sure to dig the heel of my hand against his Adam's apple.

"Let me go!" I growled.

He struggled for a minute, during which I pushed harder, and he finally relented. As soon as I could, I reached for his half-empty drink and threw it in his face. He yelped as the alcohol burned his eyes, cursing at me, but I didn't care. I yanked the curtain back, wanting to rip it from the wall entirely.

As I stormed toward the dressing room, I knew I was done. As soon as I was out of sight, I ripped off my shoes and peeled off my eyelashes. Leaning against my locker, I took gulping breaths. I let the fear rush through me as if a barrel of icewater had been dumped over my head. As soon as the coldness subsided, I started to cry. How had I gotten myself into this situation? I was naked except for a pair of skanky panties, alone in a dressing room at a strip club. Crying.

Before I had time to collect myself and count my bills for payout and go home, the door swung open.

It was Summer.

"Having a hard time, Forget-Me-Not?" she asked as she rummaged through her locker.

Angry at her mocking, I turned around so she couldn't see me as I tried to open my locker. But the lock was jammed and I ended up spinning the dial over and over as I tried to mask my sniffling.

She approached me, inflated breasts almost brushing my shoulder as she lowered her voice to a softer tone. "Hey, hustle clubs aren't for everyone," she said, sounding almost sympathetic. "It can be tough."

I sniffled for a minute before I nodded. "I don't even know how I got here," I admitted.

I saw her breasts bounce as she shrugged. "None of us quite remember." Then she turned away and picked something out of her locker. It was a business card, which she handed to me. "Try this place," she said. "It's much more quaint. No direct contact with customers."

I looked down at business card of a random girl who worked at Jezebel Rose, a peep show down the street. I'd seen it, but didn't know anything about it. I wasn't sure what a peep show even was. But if Summer said there was no direct contact, I was interested.

Then Summer paused and reached back into her locker. "This place too. I teach on Thursdays."

The card she handed me was from a pole dance studio called Swivel Fitness with the name Cassandra July on it.

"Is this you?" I asked, flicking the card toward her. "Cassandra?"

She raised her eyebrows, letting me know I'd crossed a boundary. "If you go to her class, you might see there is a striking resemblance."

I nodded, embarrassed I had broken the stripper code of name secrecy. I mumbled a _thanks_, which I don't think she heard as she closed her locker and tramped up the stairs.

When I finally got my locker open, I packed all my makeup and belongings into my gym bag, knowing I wouldn't come back. As I paid out, I didn't even care that I had only made forty dollars. I was just glad to be done.

The next day I bravely picked up my duffle bag and ventured the same bus route to the club, but walked past it and into Jezebel Rose. The woman working at the front desk greeted me and I asked about working there.

"You'll need to audition," she said, handing me a piece of paper. "Nancy's here now if you're interested."

Knowing I had accessed all my remaining courage to get there and that my courage might not be replenished another day, I nodded.

Ten minutes later I was led into The Box and told to dance for ten minutes while Nancy observed.

The box was set up to be sort of like a fish tank with two poles running through it. Around the small square room were a series windows, some of which were lined with one-way mirrors so I couldn't see who was behind the glass. When a customer entered one of the little booths looking into the box, they would drop quarters into a slot and a shade would lift, revealing whoever was dancing in the box at the time. The only way the dancers knew people were watching behind the mirrors was a small green light that flickered on when the shade was lifted. The windows were low to the ground, rising only to hip-level so the observers could see as much leg, ass, and pussy as possible.

The glass was kept clean on my side, reflecting me as I danced, so it was just like dancing in front of mirrors at home. I liked that; I didn't have to know who was behind the glass, and got to see my body in action. I wasn't exactly a narcissist, but I knew I looked good and loved watching the way my body could bend and stretch, muscles flexing and shifting as I did.

I knew a few minutes into the audition that I had found a job I would enjoy for months to come.

And I did. I was hired on the spot and given my first shift the next day. Confidence replenished, I went home and made dinner for Justine.

Five months later, I was happy with my chosen profession. I rarely dreaded going to work, and took extra shifts when I could squeeze them in. I felt strong in multiple senses: physically, since I was in the best condition of my life, and sexually, since I felt I had so much power. Dr. Turner even commented on how I'd been more aggressive lately. Luckily he liked that. The other Jezebels were chatty in the dressing room, a distinction from the stoniness of the hustle club locker room. A group of us started hiking together on our off days. We'd laugh about the club regulars and exchange recipes and vent our relationship problems. I found things in common with everyone. And on top of everything, I had plenty of cash.

The only thing I dreaded, apart from exhausting shifts in the Private Pleasures booth, was the possibility of someone I knew coming in and discovering my secret. I tried to hide behind copious amounts of makeup and sometimes wigs, but there was no way to completely mask who I was. I was, after all, mostly naked. A few times I had nightmares about classmates watching me from behind the mirrored glass, taking pictures illegally and sharing them with everyone from our neuroscience program. Or, even more horrifying, that a picture of me would end up on the internet and my parents would see it.

I had to keep up the façade of waitressing, even going as far as to bring home "leftovers" for Justine once in a while. I told my parents and sister I was aggressively applying for jobs in neuroscience, when in reality I had no intention of doing so. All the lies and secrets made me lonely. I missed whining to Justine about classes and telling my parents about the latest happenings at the restaurant. But I was financially solvent, physically fit, and rarely bored, so I figured those things came at a price.

Before I graduated from my Master's program, I had always offered to do Justine's laundry while I did my own, because it forced me to sit and study uninterrupted for at least an hour, save for a few breaks to switch machines. Sometimes I hung things dry, but in the winter and when it was exceptionally cold for San Francisco, I had no choice but to use the dryers. I was good about sorting things that needed to be washed separately, and didn't mind looking at Justine's dirty clothes. She's the only person I can say that about. After living with her for three years, we know each other pretty well, and not much grosses us out about each other.

Now that I had graduated, Justine felt she had to return the favor for all the hours I'd spent waiting for our laundry, so she collected mine every week or so and ventured to the laundromat down the street. I had the nagging thought that I should probably do all of it, since I only worked half the hours she did and because I was better at it anyway, but I didn't mind having the apartment to myself for an hour. I spent my hour looking at work shoes online.

I was shocked at how obsessed with shoes I'd become. Growing up, I'd never cared what was on my feet as long as I could walk. But since I had discovered the power of a good pair of heels at work, I had grown increasingly preoccupied with footwear.

I was just about to purchase a shiny, nude pair of Ellies when I heard Justine come in. I tilted my computer screen so she couldn't see it first thing when she walked into my room. Not that she would care I was buying shoes. But she would probably be intrigued about why I was buying things from Discount Stripper.

"Want to explain this?" she asked from the doorway.

I turned around and saw, to my horror, one of my clear, light-up, six-inch heels in her hand.

How had she found it? I kept all my stripper gear in my locker at work or in a gym bag underneath my sweats in the bottom drawer of my dresser.

"Where'd you find that?" I asked, hoping I didn't sound panicked.

"It was in your laundry bag."

"Oh. Uh, weird," I said, pretending to be disinterested. "It's not mine."

"Really," she challenged. "Is this one also not yours?" she asked, producing the shoe's mate.

I paled. It shouldn't have been a big deal, having Justine find my shoes. But it felt like she had walked in on me having sex with Dr. Turner.

My face must have shown guilt, because she raised her eyebrows and sighed. She tossed the shoes on the bed and said, "Must be some crazy restaurant you work at."

She didn't sound threatening. She sounded - well, she sounded sad.

My suspicion was confirmed when she said, "Whatever you're doing, Britt, you can tell me."

I bit my lips, glancing back at the pair of shoes I was about to buy. "I'm - I'm taking a dance class," I stuttered. "Pole dance fitness is all the rage right now."

I wasn't lying entirely. I had started taking classes with Cassandra at Swivel Fitness, and it had quickly become my second home. I loved dancing, regardless of how much clothing I was wearing. I wouldn't say Cassandra and I were friends, though she told me I could call her Cassie. But I knew the day she told me I'd finally kicked my New Girl moves that she liked me. She moved me up from beginner to intermediate and pushed me to master tricks I never thought I'd dare. I'd even started inverting.

Justine folded her arms and looked at the floor. "Are those classes at one a.m.?" she asked.

And I realized, as I looked at her standing in my doorway after she had done my laundry, that she knew I was lying to her. I had cheapened our friendship by not telling her the truth, and she was hurt that I was treating it like it was frail and fickle.

I let out a heavy sigh., "No." A moment of excruciating quiet passed before I mumbled, "I'm a dancer at Jezebel Rose."

Justine bit her lips and nodded, still not making eye contact. "Did you think I'd be mad or grossed out or something?"

I shrugged. "I didn't know what you'd think."

"You think I care what you do to pay your bills?" she asked. She sounded so sad. She shrugged. "You're my best friend, Britt. Not much else matters."

The weight of the guilt pressed down so hard that I broke. I wanted to get up and hug her, but that felt strange, considering I had just admitted to taking off my clothes for a living. So instead I gave her my best guilty look and said, "I'm sorry. I should have told you."

"You should have," she agreed.

There was another moment of silence that made me cringe and I hoped one of our phones would buzz or the doorbell would ring or the smoke alarm would go off. Anything to break the tension.

Justine took another step into my room and picked one of my shoes up from the bed, studying it. A little smirk played across her face as she said, "What's it like?"

I was hesitantly relieved. She wasn't yelling or wrinkling her nose or telling me I was being stupid or trashy. She wanted to hear more about my job, just like she would if I were doing hair or yoga instruction or selling puppets at street festivals.

"It's... interesting," I said. "I dance in a glass box with a few other girls. No contact with customers."

She studied the shoe over in her hands as she sat on the bed. The lights flickered on a few times at the motion.

"Can you actually walk in these things?" she asked, sounding reverent.

I giggled, mostly in relief that she was taking my outing so well.

"It's easier than it looks," I said.

"Easier than impossible?" Justine said, looking up at me for the first time in what felt like an hour.

"No, c'mon, you could do it," I assured her, getting up and taking the other shoe in my hand. I stooped, ready to take off her shoes and prove that walking in a pair of Ellies is almost as comfortable as walking in tennis shoes.

I half expected Justine to stop me, but she didn't. By the time I'd fastened the strap around her ankle, she was holding the other shoe out to me to put on her other foot. Her feet were a size bigger than mine, but the shoes still fit.

Once both shoes were on, she stretched her legs out in front of her and tilted her head.

"Try standing," I said. "I'll catch you if you fall."

She took a deep breath and gave me a skeptical look, but stood anyway, one hand on the bedpost. As she transferred her full weight to her feet, she looked down, as though the shoes might explode or start walking of their own volition before she was ready. But they didn't. Hesitantly, she took a few small steps. Then, seeing that it wasn't so hard after all, she took a few more, strides getting bigger and more confident. Then she looked up with a smile.

"You're right. Not that hard."

I grinned back at her. If I had known she would react like this, I would have told her earlier.

Justine paced around my room for a few more moments before she made a dramatic pose with her hand up in her hair.

"Think they'd hire me as a Jezebel?" She giggled, as though the idea was preposterous. Then she grew self-conscious, looking down at her wide hips and sturdy thighs.

"Sure they would," I said, wanting to encourage her. If there was one thing I had gained at Jezebel Rose besides money, it was appreciation for all different types of bodies, which the show managers made a point to hire.

Justine scoffed. "I can't even dance."

I gave her a dubious look. "You think they hire girls because they can dance?"

Justine giggled and rolled her eyes.

"You could totally work there," I said.

Justine looked down at her legs again and said, "Naw... I like working in the nonprofit sector too much. For the money," she joked.

"That is the drawback of stripping," I said, piggybacking on her joke. "Not so much money."

Justine clopped over to my closet where she could look at herself in the full-length mirror. She pressed her hands to her thighs, studying herself as if she wasn't around mirrors often.

"How much do you make?" she asked, tilting her head.

"Depends on the shift. When I'm just in the box, I make thirty dollars an hour. But if I do the Private Pleasures booth, I can make anywhere from two hundred to five hundred dollars a shift."

Justine's eyes went wide. "Jesus Christ, Britt. No wonder you can afford shoes like this." She picked up one of her feet, examining the the way the colored lights twinkled inside the heel at the movement.

She set her foot back down and I felt guilt creep up again. I still wasn't being totally honest with her. I knew that if she somehow ever found out about my arrangement with Dr. Turner, she would be hurt that I didn't tell her.

"I have a side job too."

"So you _are_ actually waitressing?" she asked, looking up at me in the mirror.

I took a breath. This was it. I was about to tell the first person not directly involved that I was an escort.

"No," I said, looking down at my bedspread. How could I explain that I was having sex for money without her flying into a tizzy, worrying about my health and safety? I decided to ease into it. "I have a private client I see once a week."

Justine's eyes narrowed in a frown and her lips puckered for a moment before she said, "Private client?"

I nodded. "Someone I know from outside work. We have an arrangement."

Then Justine's eyes went wide as she realized what I was saying. I braced myself for the spew of words that I knew would come.

But when she spoke, she was hesitant. "Britt, are you... are you saying what I think you're saying?"

I didn't answer the question directly, instead rushing to my own defense. "I'm really careful about it. We get tested, I make him use protection, cash only."

"Since when?" Justine asked. She sounded more curious than angry.

"About six months."

The room was quiet as Justine did some mental math.

"Dr. Turner," she said in a cool, flat voice.

I raised my eyebrows in warning. "My client pays me very generously for my discretion, Justine."

She seemed taken aback by this, blinking a few times before she shook her head. "Right. Right, of course he does," she said, as though she had intruded on a regular kind of business interaction. "Sorry." There wasn't a single note of sarcasm or anger, which surprised me. She paused for a minute before looking right at me and saying, "But you feel safe? Comfortable with that arrangement?"

I gave her a calm-infused nod to convey how comfortable I was with my part-time job. She seemed to settle, looking down at the party heels for a minute before she said, "You _have_ had a lot of skanky underwear in your laundry lately."

"Costumes," I smiled.

"Bet they don't sell those at Spirit," Justine smirked.

I smiled at her and walked over to my dresser, where I pulled out the duffle bag of things I'd kept hidden from her. As I unpacked them, showing her the tools of my trade, I felt like I was taking off clothing that was too tight and putting on my favorite yoga pants. It felt really, really good to tell someone.

Justine got closer to me after I came out to her. She had a deepened curiosity about my life and mind. It didn't feel suffocating. If anything, her unabashed curiosity fueled my own, bringing questions to the surface I'd been too afraid to fully form. She asked me if I enjoyed the sex, to which I answered, _Sometimes, but usually not_. She asked if I enjoyed Dr. Turner's company, to which I answered honestly that he wasn't horrible, but wasn't someone I'd date. I had few answers for her in terms of his psychology as the pursuer.

That's an interesting word, pursuer. Because in a way, society is set up so men are the pursuers and women are the ones being chased. But as a prostitute and stripper, it was reversed. I was chasing _them_.

The customers at the peep show were not people I'd give a second glance to on the street. But I had to create the illusion of chasing. That's what I was being paid for, at least. I had to pretend to be aroused by the idea of men in tiny closets with their pants around their ankles, jerking off to the sight of me wavering above them, pretending to be oh-so-turned-on by the tops of the their pasty, hairy thighs as they stroked themselves to my image behind the glass. I even had to pretend to be aroused by the customers I couldn't see.

Men, I had discovered, were turned on by the idea that they were turning _me_ on. The better I could play the part of the wanton girl driven to a state of sexual frenzy by the thought of a man jerking off, the more money they paid to watch me writhe and sway and strut.

Justine and I were lying head to toe on our oversized couch watching Golden Girls one night, finishing a bottle of nice red wine my sober coworker had given me after a customer gifted it to her, when Justine's eyes flashed wide.

"I figured it out," she said. "I figured out why people think stripping is dirty."

I raised an eyebrow, though my face was starting to feel numb and dissociated from the rest of me due to the wine.

"It's because you're an active participant."

I frowned. "Yeah, but I'm an active participant when I sleep with people I'm actually dating too."

"But it's different. It's like, guys are allowed to whistle at us on the street, and we're supposed to take it as a compliment. Which is to say, girls are allowed to be passive sex objects. Somehow society has granted permission for us to get our self-worth from what other people think of our bodies and desirability, you know?"

I nodded. I had no misgivings about the fact that it felt amazing to be desired. That was the high I felt in the box, particularly when one of my regulars of the non-creepy variety visited me. They preferred me over the other dancers, who were all beautiful in their own right. Being desired as something special felt good. Getting paid for it was a bonus.

"But the problem is that men don't want us to be _active_ sex objects. We have to stay still and be amenable to their urges. Right? It's like, a girl can like sex, but only if the guy is willing. If she seeks out sex or does anything provocative, then she's a slut."

"I _am_ kind of a slut," I giggled. "I mean, what's the difference between a whore and a slut?"

I regretted my question, which I had intended to be rhetorical, when Justine launched into a tirade about the potency of language and how the word _slut_ was used as a weapon between females.

"But I'm _reclaiming the word_, Justine," I said, trying to throw her own revolution lingo into the mix. "You can't tell me not to call myself a slut, just like I can't tell you not to call yourself a freak."

Justine sighed and continued her rant against the word _slut_, and I buried my nose in my wineglass, trying to figure out how to get back to watching Golden Girls and not engaging in a drunken sociological discussion.

But Justine was right about one thing. The reason I hadn't told my sister or my other friends about my job was because I knew they would all be horrified by my whorified self. They would label me as broken, defective, and irreparably tarnished. But if I did the things I did in the Box in private, they wouldn't care. They would disapprove of my job solely because I had become an active, public sex object rather than a passive, private one. And that realization made me feel like, for just a few drunk seconds, it might be worth telling them, just to start the sexual revolution I thought the world needed. Women should be allowed to be sexual however we want. Active, passive, public, or private.

But that was probably just the wine talking. Brittany, the girl who tried so hard to make people proud, would never start a hometown revolution like that.

So even though I buried the idea deep into the back of my mind, I knew, without the assistance of false eyelashes or Ellies, that Violet would be exactly the kind of girl who would start such a revolution.

Justine turned to me a minute later and said, "Hey, I keep meaning to ask you: would you be willing to let my coworker's girlfriend interview you as Violet? She needs a controversial topic for her school newspaper."

My first instinct was to say no. Aside from Dr. Turner and the girls at the Rose, no one had known about my double life until that week. I was still shy about it, waiting for someone to shame me or tell me I was degrading myself. The threat of my family or grad school friends finding out loomed heavy all around me.

But then I thought about how good it felt to be accepted by Justine and to know that she would be my friend no matter what. I thought about the banter between the girls in the dressing room on breaks and between shifts. And I thought about what a difference it made to me to read message boards about how other sex workers felt about their jobs. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I pictured a young woman who felt isolated like me reading about my life and feeling better about herself. Even if I wasn't ready to out myself to everyone I knew, I wanted to let women know it was okay to be sexual however they felt best: for themselves, for others, in public, in private, for free, or for profit. And furthermore, that it wasn't an indicator of their moral character or worth as a person.

So I turned to Justine with a confident smile and said, "Yeah. Sure."


	5. Tumbling Down

A/N: Okay, I'm all settled in New York and have some chapters to fire at you in the near future. Thanks to JJ for her fine editing work and for obliterating the fandom with feels in her most recent chapter of TKTD. Thanks to the women in the biz who let me interview them. And thanks to all of you for reading!

This chapter is Violet-heavy, but there's some Brittana mixed in there (finally!) so hopefully it won't feel too unbalanced.

* * *

**Chapter 5: Tumbling Down**

* * *

So here's what you missed on Dandelion: Bar!Britt went out for drinks and hooked up with Santana again, and it was awesome until Santana bolted (again!) and Britt was left confused. Lab!Britt was feeling awful after Vance bumped and dumped her, so Justine and Santana helped distract her and made her feel better; Santana even sent flowers! Violet was assaulted by an unruly customer at the hustle club so she decided not to do that anymore, and at Cassie's suggestion, started taking pole dance classes and auditioned to be a dancer at Jezebel Rose, a no-contact peep show. Justine discovered Violet's shoes and confronted Britt about it, so Britt came out to her as a stripper and prostitute. And that's what you missed!

* * *

Justine and I had just settled into the couch with a bottle of Pinot and a spread of Tim Burton movies when the there was a knock at the door. Justine lifted her eyebrows, asking if I was expecting someone. I shrugged and got up, feet chilly on the bare floor. When I opened the door, I was stunned to see Santana in the hall with a sheepish look on her face.

"Hi," she said, eyes darting somewhere around my knees. "I, um, I wanted to bring you these," she said, looking down to where she had a plate of chocolate cookies pressed into her stomach. "Sorry for being all stressed out the other night."

Bewildered but pleasantly surprised by her apology, I tilted my head and smiled. "That's okay. Wow, thanks."

Santana held the cookies up to me, still avoiding eye contact. I looked at her embarrassed expression and how hard she was trying to do the right thing and felt bad for her. Maybe it had been the awkwardness of sex with a near stranger that had influenced her to leave as quickly as she had both times we'd had sex. Maybe it wasn't me; situational awkwardness is oppressive. Before we'd slept together, both times, she'd been pleasant and gave no indication that she wanted to flee my presence. In fact, she made me feel very wanted.

Wanting to encourage her gesture, I opened the door wider. "Wanna come in? We just started _Corpse Bride_."

Santana peered into the apartment. Justine leaned over the sofa and gave a little wave. "C'mon in," Justine said. "I'm Justine."

"Hi," Santana said. "Um, thanks, but I think I better..." She took a step back, not finishing her sentence.

Resigned to not understanding what was going on in her head, I gave a lighthearted shrug and said, "Well if you're in the mood for a movie tomorrow night, we'll probably be doing the same thing."

Santana gave a blank nod and tucked her hair behind her ears. "Don't you work?" she asked.

"Not on Mondays."

"Okay, cool," she said, relieved that she could escape now. "I'll think about it."

"Please do," I said.

She finally made eye contact and smiled at me.

"Night," I grinned.

"Night."

I watched her walk down the stairs and disappear before closing the door and turning back to the couch.

"That your booty call?" Justine said, wiggling her eyebrows.

I clucked in disapproval. "She's not a booty call. We talk."

"Before or after?"

"Before."

Justine gave me a skeptical look and turned back to the TV. "Sounds like a booty call to me."

She unwrapped the plate of cookies and took a bite of one. "You should keep her around though. Especially if she keeps bringing us cookies."

I gave Justine a playful smack on the arm. "She's not a booty call," I grumbled.

"If you say so."

The next night, Justine and I were settling in for a viewing of _Edward Scissorhands_ when there was a knock at the door.

When I opened the door, there was Santana, sheepishly holding a bottle of Pinot. "I hope red is okay," she said. "I don't know what movie night usually entails."

Beaming, I opened the door wide and welcomed her in. "Red is great! Pinot is our favorite. How'd you know?"

My heart fluttered. Had she really come over to spent time with me? I couldn't believe it. Especially after her hasty exits both times we'd slept together. Maybe she just liked her alone time or something.

"Lucky guess," Santana said with a satisfied smile. She walked forward and held her hand out to Justine, who rose halfway out of her seat to take the handshake.

"Make yourself at home," Justine said, scooting over.

I sat down next to Santana, feeling the thrill of her side pressed against mine as we watched. I wanted to touch more of her, to thank her for coming over and for being so courteous.

She and Justine were commenting on how hot young Winona Ryder was and how bad they felt for Edward as the movie went on, but Santana didn't talk to me. I would have felt invisible, had it not been for the fleeting looks Santana gave me from time to time, little smiles interspersed with rubbing my knee under the blanket or scratching my arm affectionately. All her nonverbals were playful and reassuring. By the end of the night, I wanted her in my bed so bad.

But when the movie ended, she stood and said goodnight, offering to recycle the empty bottle on her way out. I didn't want to object, since it was perfectly normal to enjoy a night on the couch with a pretty girl and not have sex. But I was mystified as to what was going on in her head. I supposed that was how it was going to be for awhile, at least until we talked about more personal things and asked each other on formal dates. But for now, hanging out and enjoying conversation, movies, and sex was fine by me.

I decided to return her kind and flirtatious gesture the following day. Around lunchtime, I baked a batch of cookies and put them on a Santana's plate to take back to her. I knew she'd see right through it, but I planned to tell her I'd accidentally made too many, and then make it seem like she was doing me a favor by taking the cookies off my hands. It was all part of the little dance we were doing. And since dancing was part of dating and I liked dating her, I decided to play into the dance while we were still in the exciting early stages. Having been a long term relationship before, I knew how the excitement could slowly fade. I wasn't going to let an opportunity for flirtation pass me by.

When I got to Santana's apartment building, another tenant was leaving and he held the front door and gate for me so I wouldn't have to ring up for Santana to let me in. I fluttered up the stairs, excited as I imagined Santana's face when she saw me on the other side of her door with cookies. Conveniently, I'd left a few hours before my shift so if she wanted to hang out and chat or, I dunno, maybe have sex, we could. Not that I was expecting that. But it would be nice to have time alone with her, since we hadn't gotten to talk much the night before.

When I knocked on the door, I heard scrambling inside. I pictured her messy little studio with its piles of laundry and stacks of dishes. Maybe she did her little clean-up dance every time someone knocked.

"Who is it?" she called.

"It's Brittany," I replied, cheerful.

I heard more scrambling and tripping and the whispering of fabric against fabric. Then the door rattled and she jerked it open a few inches.

Her hair was messy and she had a sweatshirt thrown on, neckline uneven around her collarbone. "Hi," she said in a stage whisper. "What's up?"

Beaming, I said with a guilty smile, "I made too many cookies." I held the plate out to her and she startled, taking in my gift.

"Oh," she said. "That's- that's really sweet. Thanks."

Hesitantly, she reached for the plate and was forced to open the door a little wider to slide it inside before returning it to its previous position of being just ajar enough for her to peer out.

"What are you up to?" I asked, hinting that I wanted to hang out.

Santana grew flustered. "I'm, uh- I'm- Now's not really a good time," she muttered, face disappearing for a moment as she looked over her shoulder.

And just then, I heard her toilet flush and the sink turn on. When it shut off, I heard a girl's voice, high and nasal as it emerged from the bathroom, saying, "Santana, can I borrow a clean pair of panties? You got mine all-"

The girl stopped abruptly as Santana's face reappeared, avoiding eye contact.

I was so stunned, I couldn't filter myself as my thoughts raced.

"Are you - are you fucking someone else?" I gaped. "_Really_, Santana?"

Santana looked lower towards the floor, brushing her hair out of her face. "It's not like you and I are _dating_," she hissed, trying not to let the other girl hear. "I'll call you later, okay?"

Incredulous, I just stared at her. What was she planning to do, shower off and then see if I'd be up for her second - or was it third? - round of the day? No way. I was no one's sloppy second.

No matter how disgusted and curious I was about the other girl, I was glad Santana had the door in a death grip so I couldn't attach a face to the voice that had pierced through the fun new thing I thought Santana and I had. Apparently, I was very wrong about what was going on. Justine was right. I was just a booty call. Possibly one of many Santana had.

I swallowed, preparing to say _Don't bother_ when my filter fell back into place.

I gave a stiff shrug and said, "If you can fit me into your busy schedule."

Then I turned and left, knowing Santana wouldn't try to follow me in her hasty coverup.

* * *

x

* * *

"Do you like trampolining?" Santana asked.

Trampolining? Was that a thing?

Staring at my ceiling with my phone pressed to my ear, I was glad she couldn't see my frown. "I guess," I said. "I've never been."

"Okay. Well there's this place I was thinking we could go."

"Sure." I didn't know what she meant by trampolining and I wasn't sure if I should ask. "Sounds fun."

"Okay. Do you have yoga pants or something?"

"Uh huh."

There was an awkward pause and I wasn't sure what was happening. Were we planning date? A yoga-pant-clad trampolining date? Or were we just hanging out like we had the last three times we'd seen each other? I was confused. But I was confused a lot about many things, so I resigned myself to not knowing.

Santana arrived half an hour later. My anxiety tripled when she had rang the doorbell and I'd opened the door to see her standing in the hall. She was so beautiful and happy and calm. She was everything I wasn't. After inviting her inside, I grabbed my yoga pants and a tshirt and a pair of Keds and put them in a bag I hoped wasn't too shabby. It felt odd, gathering workout gear for a maybe-date, but then again, I wasn't sure what lesbians did on dates. In college, my dates with Maggie had mostly been in our dorm rooms or somewhere on campus.

After winding down a road that felt like it was in the middle of the forest but was actually just near Crissy Field, Santana turned to me with a smile that made her seem about fifteen years younger. "You ready for this?" she asked.

I gritted my smile and nodded.

We parked and she kept a respectful distance from me as we walked to the front of the old airplane hangar. We had to log onto computers and sign a waiver - definitely a strange feeling that compounded every anxiety I had about this maybe-date - and then were handed bright blue pairs of socks with green treads on them. Santana paid, not looking at me while she did, as if she didn't want to remind me that we were on the cusp of some kind of romantic interaction. While wearing neon, treaded socks in an airplane hangar.

Santana led me to the changing room, where we changed into our workout gear. It turned out I didn't need the shoes, since they weren't allowed. When I emerged, Santana was waiting for me outside, hands busy behind her head as she secured her long, sleek hair into a braid. She grinned and offered to do my hair for me.

Her offer made me nervous for some reason, but I loved when people played with my hair, so I let her sit me on a bench and run her fingers through my hair, a few strands catching in the crevices of her knuckles. She was gentle and efficient, and when she tied it off, I was certain it was the most perfect braid my hair had ever seen.

Then we headed toward the trampolines. Loud music was playing from speakers tucked high in the metal rafters. It felt a little bit like a school dance, speakers playing candy pop songs from the last thirty years. The people around us were mostly our age, with a few teenagers and two or three kids that could have been ten or eleven. A few fatigued parents waited on couches on the floor level. As we ascended the stairs to the trampoline pit, Santana grew more excited.

"I can't believe you've never been here," she said. "It's one of my favorite places. I come here sometimes with my colleagues to blow off steam after work."

It felt nice, to be included into something Santana did to reduce stress, even if this was maybe a date and the point of a date was not to reduce stress. The maybe-date was creating enough stress to warrant reducing, so I appreciated it.

As we reached the entrance to the trampoline pit, the music changed to a song that I didn't know but clearly excited Santana. "I love this song!" she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me into the pit.

The pit was actually an expanse of trampolines lined together by bright blue connector mats. A dozen other jumpers were bouncing around, trying and mostly failing to do cool tricks, with a few people succeeding and earning enthusiastic clapping from their friends. As I stepped onto the stretchy black material, I felt something exhale within me. We were doing something silly and ridiculous and fun that would make us sweaty and relaxed. I thought maybe Santana had planned this, to help me be less nervous. Wouldn't that have been sweet of her? Or maybe she was trying to relax me for other reasons.

But as I looked at her face as she bounded over the black rectangles, urging me to join her with her hand, I realized that she had no other reason to come here than the fact that she loved this place. While at first I had been self-conscious about letting her see me bounce around, knowing I was just a foot placement away from looking clumsy and awkward, when I saw her face and heard her giggle as she hopped across the squares, my nervousness left me and I was pulled into her joy.

We jumped until our legs and abs hurt and our lungs were burning from exertion. I was damp with a light sheen of sweat, and so was she. We stumbled off the trampoline court, and she offered me some water from her water bottle. After a brief pause, noting the smudge of her lipstick around the rim of the bottle, I took it. It was normal to share a water bottle with someone who wasn't sick, right?

We changed out of our workout gear, and she suggested we go get some food. Realizing I was ravenous, I agreed, and we drove back into the city and found a nice pizza parlor on Chestnut Street. We inhaled a pie together and washed it down with a nice wine she chose for us. She seemed to know a lot about wine.

When the check came and Santana took it before I had time to pull out my credit card, some of my uneasiness crept back in. I remembered how confused and unsure I'd felt when she picked me up. What were we doing? Hanging out as friends? If so, why was she paying for everything? Why had she sent me flowers? I felt young and inexperienced and stupid for not understanding basic unspoken social language.

So I repeated a question I'd asked her before. I glanced at the spot where the bill had just been whisked off the table and said, "Are we on a date?"

Santana blinked and looked to the side. Suddenly she looked as young and uncomfortable as I felt. It was weird to see her go from looking thirty to looking fifteen in the space of five words.

Then she opened her mouth and said, small and hurt, "I'm not a predator, you know. I can hang out with girls as friends."

I felt horribly guilty at that. I tried to explain my reasoning.

"Oh I know. I just thought, with the flowers and stuff..."

Santana frowned. "What flowers?"

Now I was confused. Hadn't the flowers been from her? Who else could have sent them? I gave up understanding anything that was going on in my social life.

"Forget I asked. I'm awkward," I mumbled. "This wine is really good," I said, lifting my glass to my lips.

She gave a strained smile of appreciation and began telling me about the winery it came from.

As soon as the check was brought back for her to sign, she zipped into herself and picked up her purse. I felt guilty that I'd ruined a nice evening with my ignorant question. We said a quick goodbye at the door and I felt the impending relief of not feeling guilty soon. But I was also sad that I probably wouldn't see Santana again.

But Santana's foot dragged on the concrete as she turned back to me. She had a sheepish, uncertain look on her face. "Brittany," she said, calling me back from the steps I hadn't taken away yet.

"Yeah?"

She clasped her hands together in front of her hips, bracing herself. "Would you ever _want_ to go on a date with me?"

My heart sped up. I hadn't gone a date with a girl since college. Not since I'd decided to get serious about my future, which I always thought would be with a man. But looking at Santana, seeing the first hint of shyness I'd ever seen in her face, seeing her her lipstick-moist lips spread with wistfulness, I let myself crack open a little. I wanted to see her again, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't find her attractive. She was stunning. I liked talking to her. And she possessed a confidence I hoped I could absorb.

Remembering the brave way Santana had told me to consider if I liked a person or the idea of a person, I decided to whittle away at my carefully constructed, constricting ideas about who I could like. I did like Santana. And I knew she liked me. She'd told me so.

So, steeling myself against the surge of anxiety that would come when the word flew out of my mouth, I nodded. "Yeah," I said, hoping it wouldn't sound too stiff.

"Yeah?" Santana asked, the corners of her mouth lifting with the hope that one word had given her.

"Yeah," I said, steadier this time.

Now her face was positively elated, and she took a few steps back toward me. But she didn't get too close, because she knew I might get spooked. "Does Saturday work for you?"

I didn't need to look at my mental calendar before I said yes. I knew I was available, though my couch and box set of _Downton Abbey_ would miss me.

"Yeah," I said.

She almost giggled with delight, and I felt buoyant, knowing I'd made her that happy with just one word.

"Okay," she said. "Want me to pick you up? Or should we meet somewhere?"

I shrugged. I didn't have a preference. "You can pick me up," I said, knowing it would make her happy.

Santana's smile was blinding now, which helped settle the butterflies in my stomach. "Great," she said. She took a few steps backwards before saying, "I can't wait."

Then she turned and clicked away, her heels confident and easy as they tapped along the pavement. She looked back once before she got to the corner, throwing me one last smile. I realized with embarrassment that I hadn't moved, and Santana now knew I had watched her sexy legs and backside walk away. But she didn't seem phased. If anything, she seemed delighted.

* * *

x

* * *

I sighed as I held the doorknob to the small, sweaty room I was about to enter. I liked my job. And I didn't mind the warmth of the room. Since leaving Michigan, I had sworn I wouldn't live in cold weather again. The irony of the San Francisco fog and chill wasn't lost on me, but I knew at least I could escape to a nearby county if I needed a break from the cold. I was just tired today, like anyone would be tired on a Wednesday. And the guilt from avoiding my sister's calls for a few weeks now wasn't making me feel any perkier.

My friend Callie - stripper name Stella - was in the Box today, and that would be fun. Sometimes when we did the Private Pleasures Booth across the hall together, we got so many repeat customers, the boss gave us an extra shift or two. I didn't know what it was about the combination of Callie and me, but it seemed to appeal to most of the customers.

The Private Pleasures Booth was a terrarium of experimental and uncommon manifestations of sexuality. At least that's what I'd thought when I first started working it. But after six months, I had no choice to redefine what fell in the "normal" realm of sexuality.

The Booth was set up with a large window facing the hall, where the girl - or girls - working it would look out and try to entice customers. Once she secured one, she drew a shade and focused her attention on the customer behind the glass in front of her. Aside from a tiny slot the customers fed bills through, the glass wall was solid and comforting. Not that I'd ever touch it without gloves unless I had personally sanitized it. There were often streaks of semen on the other side, and although I trusted the other girls more than the customers, I didn't know what fluids were on my side.

We were big on barriers at Jez. For every Booth shift, we brought a blanket or sheet to lay down so we wouldn't transmit anything to each other. The floor of the Box was mirrored glass and cleaned daily, but the floor in the Booth was carpet and I had no idea the last time it had been cleaned.

Perhaps the more exhausting thing about the Booth was that it was a veritable Pandora's box of sexual indulgence. I never did anything illegal like penetrate myself with my fingers or an object. Other girls swore they could smell a cop for miles, but I didn't trust myself to recognize one at any distance. So I kept it as clean as the situation allowed.

I had seen and heard things I had never considered to be sexual in the Booth: men asking me to call them Daddy, asking me to slut-shame or humiliate them, asking me to pretend to be a twelve-year-old girl or a Navy commander or an animal. I was fine with most things, but refused to play any character under fourteen. I wondered if I was helping or encouraging people with potentially harmful fantasies; were these men sleeping with underage girls on the outside, too, or were their urges satisfied by paying a grown woman to play-act with them? It was a dilemma I never really resolved.

When I entered the Box, immediately enveloped in the heat and humidity, Callie turned to look at me. I gave her a tired smile from under my wig, and I couldn't help but notice her face looked a little puffy. Looking closer, I saw that her nose was chapped and red from being wiped with a Kleenex.

_Great_, I thought. There was no way I'd be able to spend four hours in the Box with her and not get sick.

That was probably the biggest day-to-day drawback of my job, aside from the secrecy of it: I got sick often, being in such close, humid quarters with other girls. That and it was difficult to find a sub at the last minute if I had to call in sick. Management had strict rules about who was allowed to sub for dancers; it had to be someone who was the same height, weight, and cup size. Luckily I had a few girls who could spot for me and needed hours, but Callie, at five foot two, weighing less than one hundred and ten pounds with size C breasts and dark, olive skin, didn't have anyone who could cover for her. I felt bad for her and gave a little pout.

I immediately began wiping down the poles with an antibacterial wipe, giving myself a slightly better chance of not getting sick. But I knew it was inevitable. I steeled myself, hoping this time the cold would only last a few days and wouldn't be too hard to work through. Once when I had been sick, my head had been pounding so hard, with the combination of heat, music, and exertion from dancing, I had slept for almost twenty hours after my shift. Hopefully this time wouldn't be as brutal.

"How's the crowd?" I asked as I started wiping the second pole.

"Okay," Callie said, sounding stuffed up as she bent backwards in front of one of the windows. "It'll get better now that you're here."

I nodded. "Anyone here for a while?" I asked.

"Window four has been dropping quarters for about fifteen minutes," Callie said, walking towards the pole I had just cleaned. "You should give him a little show and see if he sticks around."

"Sure," I said. "Sorry you're sick."

Callie sniffled and shrugged, pressing her back against the pole and sliding down with an arm raised over her head. "I'll try not to breathe on you."

"Thanks," I said.

But in the end, I did get sick. I was out for three days, only leaving my bed when I absolutely had to. Justine was a sweetheart, bringing me soup and Kleenex and various concoctions she swore would shorten the stay of the savage virus that throbbed through me.

At least once on each of those days, Kimi called me. Once I accidentally answered, because I was groggy from too much NyQuil and thought it was Callie calling to say Nora would cover my shift. I told Kimi my head hurt too much to talk, which was partly true, but mostly I wasn't ready to craft more lies about my work for her. I could hear her sympathetic pout on the end of the line, asking why I'd been sick so often lately. I told her stuff was just going around, and left out the neon pink petri dish I was wriggling around in on a daily basis.

A week later I was finally feeling better, just in time for my standing appointment with Dr. Turner. Now that Justine knew about my job, I didn't mind her seeing me "in costume," at least as far as my face was concerned, so I didn't have to put on makeup on the bus or in a coffee shop near Dr. Turner's house. I had just applied coal-black liner to my upper eyelids after finishing my foundation when I heard my phone buzzing on the coffee table. Seeing it was Kimi again, I sighed. I would have to talk to her at some point. If I talked to her now, maybe I'd get out of an hour-long chat that would leave me feeling lame in comparison to her perfect East Coast life.

"Hey, I can only chat for a bit," I said, hunching my shoulder up to hold it against my ear as I applied mascara. "I'm meeting someone and he doesn't like when I'm late."

"Someone you're dating?"

"No."

"A booty call?"

I was surprised that she asked me so directly. She and I hadn't talked about sex much. She knew I'd slept with Damon the summer I was fifteen, but she didn't know any details, other than that I had gone on the Pill shortly after. She knew I'd dated a girl in college and considered myself bisexual, but the specifics of how I'd come to that conclusion had never been discussed. I knew even less about her sex life, other than that she never talked about it. I knew she _had_ sex with her boyfriend, but not how often or what kind or if she enjoyed it as much as I had in my past relationships.

I decided to respond to her candidness with my own. "Kinda."

I could hear Kimi's judgmental frown through the phone. "Why are you letting him boss you around?"

I had a choice to make. I could bluff and let Kimi continue thinking I was on the straight, constricting path towards being a neuroscientist, or I could buck up and tell her the truth, letting go of anything that she might want to compete with. Kimi was the last person in the world - well, my world - who would accept money in exchange for sex.

And because my double identity had made me contemplate the value of everything lately, I decided to tell her the truth. Truth is more valuable than most things.

I took a breath.

"Because it's his money so he gets to decide when we meet."

"His money?"

"Yeah."

"What's he paying for?"

"Me."

There was a long pause as Kimi's mind put things together.

"Your booty call is paying you?"

"Yeah."

I could hear the wheels turning in her head through the phone.

"He's _paying_ you."

"Yep."

"And you're sleeping with him?"

"Uh huh."

Kimi let out a soft gasp. "Brittany… do you realize what you're doing?"

I learned ten years ago that the quickest way to infuriate Kimi was to roll with every push she gave, not bothering to resist, thereby taking all the wind out of her sails.

"I'm having sex for money."

"Also known as _prostitution_." She enunciated the word with obvious distaste, as though she were revealing something putrid and had to pinch her nose as she held the word up to my face, showing me the revolting mess I was rolling around in.

"That's the legal term for it, yeah." I found myself shrugging, even though she couldn't see me.

"You're above that, Brittany!" she gasped. I could picture her getting up to pace around her apartment.

"I don't think so."

"Yes you are! Oh my God, Britt, you are so, so smart and capable. Why do you think you have to do something degrading like that? Do you need money? I can help you out!"

"Degrading how?" I asked, trying not to sound challenging. If I didn't play into her drama, she'd eventually see I wasn't doing anything wrong.

"You're selling your body!"

"I'm providing a service, just like cleaning or gardening or microdermabrasion. It happens to be sex."

"But it's dangerous!" Kimi protested.

"I use protection. My client gets tested regularly, as do I. I'm not an idiot."

"How long has this been going on?" Kimi demanded. I knew she was hoping it was a recent development that she could help me realize I needed to walk away from.

"About six months."

"_Six months?_" Kimi exclaimed, "_Jesus_, why didn't you tell me?"

I wanted to say _Because I knew you'd react like this_, but I wanted to stay calm. "It's just work. It's not a big deal."

"It _is_ a big deal!"

"Not to me," I shrugged. I knew I wasn't telling the whole truth, but it was the truth I wanted Kimi to believe. I had become somewhat of an expert in getting people to believe things.

"I just don't understand _why_…"

"I call all the shots, I make good money, I get good exercise, and I only have to work a few hours a week."

"But you're a _prostitute_!"

"Yep."

Kimi made some sputtering noises on the other end of the line.

I continued with my easy, gentle response to her concerns. "Having sex for money doesn't make me a bad person."

"But you have a Master's degree! Why aren't you doing something with that?"

"Because it's not exciting to me," I said, trying to be patient with her. Talking about my degree brought up all the anxiety I had about not wanting to work in neuroscience. I had found ways to not think about that for the time being, most of which involved taking my clothes off.

"Yes, but think about your future! Who's gonna want to-"

She stopped abruptly, realizing she was about to say I was worthless and no one would ever want to date me, let alone marry me or have children with me. I was stunned she had actually started to say something like that. I thought she at least cared about me enough not to insult me.

"So I should be miserable cooped up in a lab so someday I can retire to the suburbs?"

"No, just- Britt, I want you to _think_ about what you're doing."

"I have thought about it. It's not like I tripped and fell into this by accident." My mind flickered back to that first night and the wad of bills lying threateningly on Dr. Turner's duvet. _That_ had been an accident. But everything I'd done since then was a choice I made with care and deliberation. "I know this is a lot of information at once, but I promise I'm being safe."

There was silence and for the first time in our conversation, I grew nervous.

"Say something," I said.

Kimi paused and I heard her sniff. "I don't know what to say... I don't want you to get hurt."

"I know. I'm careful."

Kimi sighed, dejected. "It's just weird to think that you're sleeping with someone for _money_. I care about you so much, Britt... You're my little sister."

I hadn't expected Kimi to pull the caring sister card. She must have been getting really desperate. She was usually too busy to do much besides criticize me in her underhanded way. I knew somewhere she meant well by it, but it had never felt like affection. She just wasn't a demonstrative person.

I softened. It was rare that Kimi dropped her defenses enough that I felt I could actually affect change in her thinking. "Don't worry, Kimi," I said with surprising softness. "I have a very clear boundary with him. I don't ever have emotional or spiritual sex."

"Spiritual sex?"

"Yeah, where you just feel that connection to the person? It's like your bodies don't even matter, because there's that intensity… You know?"

Kimi hummed, uncertain. That little noise made me realize that Kimi didn't know what I was talking about. That made me so sad for my big sister. She may have the stars and moon and sun in her galaxy in her professional life, but her personal life has been less charmed.

It also made me realize how _difficult_ it was for Kimi and I to talk about sex, even when we tried. It wasn't just because we never had before; there was something about it that made her so uncomfortable, I could picture her squirming. Maybe we were too far apart to talk about sex. Maybe she felt it was improper to talk about things that went on behind closed doors with anyone but her partner, just like our parents had. I began to wonder if that was part of what had driven me to venture into the industry in the first place; I needed an outlet for everything that had suffocated under the oppressive attitude toward sexuality I'd grown up with. Kimi was still living in that place. Even if she never accepted my work, I hoped, at the very least, I could help her loosen up enough to enjoy her body and sexuality a little more.

"So..." Kimi said, daring the ask questions, "do you have a pimp or something?"

"No," I said, smiling at her effort to learn more about my work. "I only have one client, so there isn't a point. Other girls I chat with online work independently too. We don't have a union, since it's not legal yet, so having a third party managing things can be risky and cost a lot of our profits."

"A hooker _union_?" she said, and I heard her wrinkle her nose.

"Kimi," I warned.

"Sorry."

"I know what I'm doing. Someone's even interviewing me about my work. We're meeting for lunch next week."

Kimi sounded suddenly protective. "Who?"

"Someone... Lopez? I don't know, Justine set it up."

"Justine knows?"

"Yeah."

"_Please_ be careful, Britt. You could go to jail if that journalist has it out for people who... do what you do."

"I'm not gonna tell her my real name, dummy. I use a pseudonym."

"You do?"

"Yeah. I use it at the club too."

"You work in a strip club _too_?" Kimi asked, her voice becoming panicked again.

"It's just a peep show. The customers are behind glass, so there's no contact. Hustling for lap dances is way too intense for me."

I heard Kimi groan on the other end of the line. "Oh my god, Britt... I can't even imagine..."

"Most people don't imagine their little sister taking off her clothes for money," I said with a giggle. "But it's not really _me_ doing that. I mean, it's my body, but I play a character. It's like, erotic acting."

"What your stage name?"

"Violet."

"You didn't go for something like Trinity or Candy?" She was trying to be playful, but it felt forced.

"No, my whole image is that I'm the girl next door. My clients want a sweet name to go with that persona."

"If that's your act, don't the customers get attached to you? I mean, everyone loves the girl next door…"

"Sometimes, yeah. I have to make really clear boundaries so my regulars know I'm only available when I'm working."

"Oh god, Brittany, this isn't making me feel any better…"

I looked at the clock, grateful that I had to leave now, thus giving me an excuse to end our conversation.

"I have to go, but don't worry, okay? I can take care of myself and I'm good with my boundaries. I'll talk to you soon."

"Okay…" Kimi's voice was still wrought with worry. I knew it was a lot for her to digest. I imagined what I'd feel if the tables were turned. Not that they ever would be. But discovering someone you care about has a big secret is always shocking.

Then I remembered I had to make sure she kept my secret. "Hey… Don't tell mom and dad, okay?"

"Of course not… They would _die_," Kimi said, as though the prospect of our parents finding out was worse than the fact that I was stripping at all.

Suddenly I felt guilt pile onto me, as though Kimi was deliberately trying to make me feel like I was shaming my family. I wasn't shaming them. At least I wasn't trying to. I was just doing what I needed to do for myself. Now all the independence I had gained came not only with the burden of secrecy, but the threat of bringing shame to my family. I hated that that was how it worked, and I hated that Kimi was part of that threat now. I wished I hadn't told her.

"I'll talk to you soon, Britt," she said, reeling back into her East Coast efficient tone.

Grasping for anything that would convince her I was okay, I blurted out, "I'm really happy, Kimi."

There was a pause that allowed me to set down some of the guilt she had given me.

"You are?"

It wasn't judgmental or challenging. It only sought confirmation that I was telling the truth.

"Yeah. Really happy," I said. "I hope you're as happy in your job as I am."

Kimi gave a wincing chuckle that told me she wasn't. "I'll talk to you soon, B."

"Talk to you soon."

I hung up, surprised at my bravery and how well the conversation had gone, all things considered. It hadn't been perfect, and she was still reeling. But she hadn't yelled or told me I was a disgrace. At least not in so many words. I couldn't believe I'd actually told her! Was I still groggy from all the cold medicine I'd consumed recently? That seemed the most likely explanation. I decided not to impulsively out myself to anyone again. I wasn't sure my nerves could stand it. But again, telling someone felt like loosening a corset that was drawn too tightly.

A few days later, I waited for the girl who would be interviewing me in the coffee shop we had arranged to meet via email. It was a nice coffee shop with a patio, which is where I sat, drinking an overpriced fair trade organic vegan cup of self-righteousness. It was good, even if it was decaf.

Santana Lopez entered the coffee shop and I was surprised by her meek demeanor. As she brushed past someone on her way to the table where I was waiting, she ducked her head and gave the person a sheepish, apologetic smile. That wasn't at all how I imagined a journalism student would be. But it wasn't like she wrote for a major publication like the Chronicle or something. But she had been so persistent in pursuing my story, I thought for sure she'd at least hold her head up high.

She looked around, confused for a minute. I stood and waved to her. She frowned before walking towards me.

"Violet?" she asked.

Although it felt odd to be called Violet when I wasn't in costume or wearing a stitch of makeup, I nodded with a warm smile and stood to shake her hand. "You must be Santana," I said, tilting my head in welcome. "So nice to meet you."

"Hi," Santana said, her voice soft as she looked at my hand. "That's a nice bracelet," she commented.

"Oh, thanks!" I chirped, admiring the tennis bracelet one of my Booth regulars had given me. "It was a gift."

Santana opened her mouth like she was about to say something, but then closed it, nodding instead. "Is it okay if we just get started?" she asked, sitting down. "I'm on a deadline."

"Aren't we all," I said with a laugh. "Fire away."

Santana set up a small tape recorder, and I held in a puzzled smile. I hadn't seen a tape recorder in years. Possibly decades.

"Will you state your name for the record please?"

"My stage name is Violet."

"Right," Santana said, seeming to remember she wasn't privy to my real name. "And what's your profession?"

"I'm a dancer."

Santana bit her lip in an unreadable expression. "What kind of dancer?"

"An exotic dancer. I work at the Jezebel Rose."

Santana nodded, as if that was the information she'd been seeking. "And how long have you worked there?"

"Six months."

Santana paused for a second, unsure where to go. "What made you take that job?"

I suspected Santana had a false idea about what had led me to start stripping. In movies and on TV, strippers were always down-on-their-luck women with daddy issues or junkies who had no other choice but to strip. They were miserable or morally bankrupt and not people that someone sweet and reserved like Santana would associate with.

"Well," I began, patiently beginning the task of informing Santana that my life was far from tragic, "I was in an elevator with someone and I said the right thing."

"And what were you doing in the elevator?" Santana said, looking down at the recorder, flustered.

"I was talking to my neuroscience professor."

Santana looked startled. "What?"

I gave her an amused smile. "I have a Master's in neuroscience. I started stripping because it's great exercise and makes me feel good about my body."

"Oh. Okay," Santana said, eyebrows lifting. "Can you tell me more about that?"

"I get to spend four hours a day working with the most awesome women I know, exercising, and feeling good about myself. And I get paid really well."

"How well?"

I paused, trying not to be too critical of this sweet girl, but her question was out of line. "Would you ask me that if I worked in an office?"

Santana grew more flustered and shook her head. "Are there any negative parts of your job?"

"Of course," I said. "There are negative parts to every job."

"What about in yours?"

I bit my lip. I could talk about the problems with the Box or the slimier customers. I could talk about the trouble finding someone to cover a shift. But I didn't want to highlight anything too much, because I knew Santana and her readers would harp on it and use it as fodder to further their belief that strip joints were places of depravity that only sick people worked in.

"Mostly labor stuff. We can't always swap shifts when we want, sometimes we don't get along with our coworkers... You know, the usual. Nothing horrible."

Santana fumbled in her notes for a minute before taking a breath and asking, "Can you tell me anything about the gender politics of where you work?"

I laughed. "I think it's just a more exaggerated version of any workplace. Except I wouldn't say there's a glass ceiling to go along with our glass floor. We have mostly female managers and union reps."

"Union reps?" Santana asked, looking stunned.

"Yeah, we have a union rep. Her name is Jean. She's awesome."

"How did that come about?"

"I don't know. But I know lots of strip joints in the area are creating them. It's good. Unions keep us safe."

Santana nodded, biting her lip. "What would you change about your job, if you could?"

"I'd probably get some better ventilation in the peepshow Box. Maybe bigger dressing rooms and a sauna or something. Oh! An on-staff masseuse," I chuckled. "But nothing major."

"So you _like_ your job," Santana said, setting down her notes and looking up at me with a pleasant curiosity.

"I love my job," I said. "I get good exercise, I get paid well, and I work with amazing women."

Santana nodded, contemplating. "Do they like it too?"

"They love it. We take care of each other, you know? We call it the Sisterhood of the Taking-Off-Our Pants," I said with a wink.

Santana giggled, but then put her hand to her mouth. I was surprised by the girlish noise that came out.

"Sorry," said Santana. "I didn't mean to laugh."

"You can laugh," I said with a grin, leaning towards Santana. "It was supposed to be funny."

Santana pulled her hand down and rested it in her lap, gazing at me. For a moment she stayed like that and time seemed to stand still. She let down her guard, and I was in awe of her beauty. Santana had to be one of the most beautiful women I'd ever met. And I had met a lot of beautiful women.

Santana seemed to remember where she was and what she was doing. She shook her head, looking down at the recording device and consulted her notes. "So... How does being a sex worker impact your dating life?" Santana asked. "Do men have a problem with it?"

My mind flickered back to my conversation with my sister. _Who's going to want to date you now? Marry you? Have children with you?_ had been the questions Kimi had almost hurled at me. It hurt to have someone so close to me tell me I was worthless. I didn't want to talk about any of that with Santana, so I dodged the question with serpentine grace. "I haven't dated much since I started," I said. "But I hear a lot of talk in the dressing rooms. Most of the girls tell the men they date right away, and they're fine with it at first. Down the line it can be problematic. But across the board, the women we date have a harder time with it."

"Oh," Santana said, startled. She looked down at her paper. "Um, okay. Why, uh, why do you think that is?"

I gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Most women who date women have some feminist tendencies, and they have a hard time reconciling their feminist beliefs with sex work. It's not a feminist industry. The club I work for treats me well, and I consider enjoying my body and using it in whatever way I choose to be a feminist act. Prostitution can be a feminist act if you go into it with those intentions. But not everyone thinks that way."

Santana didn't make eye contact, chewing her lip as she made notes. She seemed to be turning the idea over, unsure if she should ask more questions. "Do you know any prostitutes?"

I paused, debating telling Santana the truth. I remembered how shocked and upset Kimi had been. I didn't want to alarm Santana. But given that I probably wouldn't see her again, I figured it was safe. "I am one."

Santana looked up, startled.

"You are?"

"Anyone who has sex in exchange for something is a prostitute. My exchange happens to be money, which keeps things simple. Sex, payment, and I'm done. Women have been doing that since the dawn of time."

"But isn't that just because they had to? To survive?"

I shook my head, but gently. I wanted to ease Santana towards my way of thinking. "I don't need to do it to survive. It's a choice. A very conscious one that I made for my own reasons. I could get another job and pay the same bills."

"Oh. Okay." Santana looked down at her notes, brow furrowing. She looked lost and confused. She kept pausing awkwardly, as though she were having to translate something in her head. "Do you ever feel... Like, after work, do you ever feel..."

Poor journalism skills aside, I felt bad for her. She looked embarrassed, and I knew what she was trying to ask. Even if it was an insulting question, I helped her out.

"Dirty?" I offered.

She nodded, relief passing over her face.

"No," I said. "If I felt dirty after work I wouldn't do it." Then I amended, "Actually I do feel dirty after work, but only in the sense that I want to take a shower because I'm sweaty from dancing for four to six hours. It's a workout, you know? But I feel clean too, like after running a few miles or something."

Santana frowned, confusion growing more prevalent in her face. "Oh..."

There was a long pause and I got the sense I had stumped her. I felt bad for her. "Did I give you everything you need?" I asked. "I like to make sure other people are satisfied, you know," I said with a wink.

Santana looked even more flustered and I realized I'd gone too far. This girl had probably never been anywhere outside her hometown until she turned eighteen, and this was her first big job and she was scared of messing up.

"Did I surprise you with some of my answers?" I asked.

"A little bit," Santana admitted. "I have a few more questions, if you don't mind."

"Of course not," I said, perking up. I loved talking about my work.

"How do your parents feel about your work?"

I tried not to visibly deflate. This was the question that had the most complicated answer.

"They don't know," I admitted. "My sister does. She has a hard time with it. She's very... empowered and self-righteous. She thinks I'm demeaning myself by stripping. We've talked about it and I think she'd starting to understand it a little better. But she still wishes I had chosen something else."

"Like neuroscience?" Santana asked

"Like neuroscience," I echoed. "She wishes I would use my brain for my work rather than my body. I think I do use my brain a lot in my work, but she doesn't see that."

"Huh..." Santana said, forehead crinkling in confusion as she scanned her notes.

I looked at Santana's confused expression with sympathy. This poor girl was just trying to survive in the world. If anything, she was more of a prostitute than I was.

I delicately clicked Santana's recording device off, and Santana looked startled.

"I'm not the interview you wanted, am I?" I ventured a guess.

"No, of course you were," Santana said, sounding too forced to be convincing.

"Hm," I said. "Because it kind of seems like- don't take this the wrong way - like maybe you wanted to interview a sad stripper instead of a happy stripper."

Santana bit her lip in embarrassment before sighing. "I think that's what my editor was expecting... But it's cool that you're not. I wouldn't want you to be sad. I'm just not really sure where to go with the article."

I nodded, taking in the confusion on Santana's face. "Lots of people want to hear how sex work is awful and corrupt and full of miserable half-humans. And there is some of that in the industry. But I think you find that in any profession. Maybe you can be the one to show the world that sex work can be whatever the workers make it."

Santana looked overwhelmed, as though she'd been handed a much bigger story than she wanted. "I guess," she said, biting her lip.

"You came here looking for a story about a junkie and how she supports her habit, and instead you got a normal, independent girl who cries during _The Notebook_ and anxiously awaits the next episode of _Downton Abbey_. It's understandable that you don't know where to go."

Santana sat staring at her notes, puzzled for a minute. I wanted to take her under my wing like Callie had done for me when I was new at Jezebel Rose.

"Do you want an inside look at what I do? Because I can arrange that," I offered.

Santana shifted in her chair. "That- that's okay," she said. "I'm not into that."

I realized I had phrased my offer poorly. "I meant a backstage tour, not a free show."

Santana looked embarrassed. "Oh... Right. Um..." She looked around, uncertain, and I couldn't help but think that everything about her was uncertain. Her eyes shifted, and she didn't sit up straight or walk tall. Even her handshake had been tentative.

"You can talk to the other girls and see if any of them are sad. And I can show you what I mean about the Box. Not during working hours, of course."

"Really?" Santana said, sounding intrigued but shy.

"Of course," I chirped. "The only rule is no alcohol, men, or sex in the dressing room." I gave her a playful wink.

Santana ducked her head in embarrassment. "I don't think that will be an issue."

"Great," I said, patting the table decisively. "Let's meet Saturday morning at ten. The club won't be open, but a few of the dancers will be around after our union meeting. I'll make sure it's not scary."

Santana gave me a shy smile. "Okay."


	6. Under My Skin

A/N: A new chapter two weeks in a row, whaaat? That's what happens when I have a lot of free time. Thanks to JJ for her edits.

* * *

**Chapter 6: Under My Skin**

* * *

So here's what you missed on Dandelion: After hanging out a few times and flirting, Bar!Britt went over to Santana's house with cookies and discovered her in bed with another girl. Lab!Britt and Santana hung out a few times too and Britt finally agreed to go on a date with her. Violet came out to her sister as a sex worker and was interviewed by this awkward, shy little journalist named Santana who she then offered a backstage tour of the peepshow to. And that's what you missed!

* * *

I got home and furiously cleaned the apartment. I tended to do that when I was angry. Over the years of living together, Justine had discerned that I was upset about something when she came home to a clean house, so I figured she would ask me what was up when she got home from her boyfriend's house tomorrow.

When I got to work a few hours later, I was still fuming. The great thing about bartending in a place like Jules' was that I could do it no matter how I was feeling, unless I had horrible cramps, and then I could just sneak a drink or two and take the edge off. I thought I'd be able to channel my anger into energy to serve as many customers as possible, but I must have come across differently than usual, because Dave took a moment to put his hand on my arm at the register and ask me what was up.

"What's going on? You're all... stormy," he said, brow furrowing in concern.

"I got screwed over by someone I liked," I grumbled.

Dave's shoulders drooped with sympathetic disappointment. "Aw, man. Wanna close with me so we can talk about it?"

Even though I wasn't sure it was a good idea to talk about Santana when I was still so angry, I shrugged and said, "Sure."

He gave me a consoling pat on the arm and turned back to the bar where Chad was waiting impatiently with a twenty in his "man-icured" hands.

After Dave locked the door that night, we busied ourselves setting the chairs and tables in their places, sweeping and wiping down with practiced speed. I was glad to be closing with Dave because Abby always whined about it, and Thomas and Casey always gossiped about the happenings of the night for too long and it took forever. When we finished, Dave gave me a high-five and patted a barstool. "Sit down, sister," he said. "Tell me what's going on in your love life."

It was the girliest thing he'd ever said, and it made me smile to see his burly body trying to mock the feminine mannerisms of some of our customers. I sat down and watched as he pulled out two beers from the bar, holding a finger to his lips to signal we weren't going to tell the bosses we were sneaking alcohol. I nodded and he capped the bottles before plopping all two hundred pounds of meat and muscle onto a stool next to me.

"So what happened?" he said.

I sighed, feeling the spin of energy from the night start to die down as I thought about Santana.

"I've been seeing someone for a few weeks and when I went to her house to surprise her with cookies this afternoon, she had another girl there and they had definitely been fucking."

Dave gave me a sympathetic frown and asked, "How long you been seeing her?"

I shrugged. "We met here two weeks ago. She took me home with her after my shift."

Dave nodded again. "And since then, you've gone out?"

"We went out for drinks on Friday and she came over to watch a movie with me and Justine last night."

Dave's frown deepened. "But did you go on a date?"

"Well yeah, kinda."

"Did she call it a date?"

"No."

"And you slept with her?"

I nodded.

"Did she say she wanted to date you?"

"No."

Dave's frown lifted and he gave me a wince. "That doesn't sound like dating to me."

I started to get angry again, wanting him to understand how uncool it had been for Santana to sleep with multiple girls at the same time. "But she was fucking another girl this afternoon after we were cuddling on the couch last night! People can't just do that!"

Now Dave looked at me like I'd just emerged from under a rock and had no idea how the world worked. "You don't think the guys that come here do that?" he said, lifting his beer to his lips.

"No, I know they do, but I didn't think _she_ would do that."

"Because she's a girl and girls are different?" Dave asked, challenging me.

"No, I just-"

I stumbled, realizing he had a point. I was holding Santana to a different standard because she was a girl. "I just- I thought she liked me."

"Maybe she _does_," Dave said, giving her the benefit of the doubt. "But that doesn't mean she had to stop sleeping with people the second she met you. Some of the happiest couples I know sleep with other people openly. And I mean, shit, you've known her what, fifteen days? Talk about U-Hauling..." He shook his head and took another sip.

"I'm not U-Hauling, I just..." Giving up, I sighed. "I guess I misunderstood what was happening."

Dave softened, putting his big bear hand on my knee. "Hey, I get it," he said. "It's tough for people like you and me. We're romantics. We want to believe the best in people."

I sighed in agreement, frustrated by my own dreaminess, and took a sip of my beer in commiseration.

Dave took another swing and pointed at me. "One thing I've learned since I moved out here a few years ago is that you have to go after what you want. It doesn't just happen to you. So if you like this girl and want to date her, tell her. The worst she could say is no."

My stomach twisted at the thought of telling Santana that I'd been so upset and reactive because I _liked_ her. Talking about that kind of stuff made me feel so young and nervous. And to be honest, the thought of her saying _No_ was pretty bad. Being told I was only worth what my body could do for her wasn't something I wanted to risk.

"I don't know," I said. "I'm probably just a notch in her bedpost."

Dave shrugged and took another sip. "That's up to you, now, isn't it?" he said. "If you don't say anything, you'll be a notch. But if you tell her what you want, you could be the whole bed."

I sighed, feeling like it was unfair that the responsibility of writing my own romantic comedy was falling to me. Wanting to avoid thinking about it, I changed the subject.

"Hey, how'd it go with that guy the other week?" I asked. "The one you wanted to leave early to see?"

Dave's smile turned sheepish and he said, "It's going good. We're going to see Beach Blanket Babylon next weekend."

Elevated by his happiness, I gave him a playful punch in the arm. "You get em, slayah."

He blushed deeper and gave me a forceless push back.

Despite Dave's soothing and reasoning, I had no plans to contact Santana. If she was interested in me as more than just a booty call, she'd have to prove it, which I didn't expect her to do. So it came as no surprise to me when she didn't contact me the following day.

What did surprise me was when she showed up at Jules' that night. It felt like seeing a ghost when I turned around and saw her beautiful face and guilty expression between the throngs of shiny, preened men. She gave a little wave and stood with her shoulders braced, trying not to be jostled by the impatient customers around her.

Not knowing how to respond, I asked Abby to take her order. If Santana wanted to talk to me, she'd have to do it at another time. She couldn't just sneak up on me like that.

When Abby tried to get Santana's order, I couldn't avoid looking. Santana looked at me and pointed as she spoke, and I knew she was asking to talk to me. Abby looked back at me and sighed, as if exhausted by the weird game of telephone we were playing. Finally I gave up and went over to Santana.

"If you want to talk to me, you'll have to do it outside of work."

Santana gave an anxious nod. "Okay. When do you get off?"

"I close," I said, trying to hint that I wasn't ready to talk to her yet. I still heard the nasal voice of the girl in her apartment piercing the air, asking for a pair of clean panties. Were they the same panties Santana had worn when she was with me?

"Okay," Santana said, biting her lip. Then she took a seat at the end of the bar and crossed her arms, waiting. Her shoulders curled a little and she looked small and young, out of place amidst the laughter and gaiety of the other customers. She was only person in the bar who wasn't having a good time.

I felt myself sink. Even if I was angry with her, I'd been harsh to not even hear her out. As Dave and Justine had pointed out, I had no claims to her outside my imagination. I had just wanted her to be more than she was. It wasn't her fault I'd gotten out of hand.

As the night wore on and the crowd thinned, Santana continued to sit there, vigilant and undeterred by the entitled male customers who tried to get her to move. I tried to pretend she wasn't there, watching me like a hawk as I bent over to lift a tray of glasses out of dishwasher. I set it on the counter and started unloading it rapidly, feeling Santana's gaze heavy on me from the end of the bar. Her surveillance put me on edge.

I must have been more frazzled than I thought, because I whirled around too quickly and felt a thud before I heard a shatter and the tinkle of glass. Jumping a bit at the jolt, I felt a searing pain shoot through my hand. I looked down and saw a bright red gash zip up my palm, seeping out and dripping onto the bar floor, followed by an overwhelming sting that seized my whole arm.

"Fuck!" I yelled, looking down at the spatters of blood and shattered glass.

Before I knew what was happening, a hand was on my arm, guiding me to the sink. But it wasn't Casey's pumped-up, tattooed bicep brushing against mine. It was the soft, tan skin of Santana's arm.

"Are you okay?" she asked, anxious.

"I just- I just cut my hand," I stammered. _Obviously_ I had just cut my hand. It was bleeding everywhere, stinging and throbbing and making me dizzy.

"Is there glass in it?" she asked.

I looked at it, feeling myself grow lightheaded at the rate of blood trickling out. I couldn't see any glass, just felt the sharp sting of the cut and the heat of the blood coming out.

I shook my head and Santana grabbed a clean bar towel, hurriedly wrapping it around my hand. "Put pressure on it," she hushed. Then she stepped back, looking toward Casey. "Yo!" she called, pointing to me. "Brittany cut her hand, I'm taking her to the emergency room!"

Something about the words _Emergency Room_ made me spin faster. I didn't want to make a scene and I didn't want to leave Casey alone to manage the bar.

"It's fine," I hissed.

"No it's not," Santana insisted. "You're gushing blood, and unless you have a do-it-yourself suture kit, you need medical attention."

Looking down at where the blood was starting to seep through the second layer of the towel, I realized Santana was probably right. I was scared and bleeding, and I didn't want to be in a room full of rowdy, drunk men.

"I'll drive," Santana said decisively. "I'm parked two blocks away. Wait outside," she instructed, patting my shoulder. "Hold that thing above your head and put pressure on it," she called over her shoulder as she pushed toward the door.

I felt myself starting to panic and was weirdly relieved Santana seemed to know what she was doing. I squeezed the towel around my hand, wincing as the sting sharpened, and lifted it above my shoulder. I didn't want to lift it all the way up as if I were in class, but I knew that elevating it would keep the blood flow down. Carefully, I stepped around where Casey was starting to sweep up the bloody shattered glass, and retrieved my purse. I didn't even bother taking off my bar apron because that would have required two hands. Clumsily putting my purse over my shoulder, I walked out from behind the bar, braving the main floor as I kept my sight on the door Santana had just left through.

I stood outside for only a minute before Santana's pale gold SUV came roaring up to the curb. She jerked it into park and got out, running around to open my door for me.

"Keep it elevated," she stressed, putting my seatbelt on for me as I watched her, arms raised awkwardly to allow her space to strap me in. Then she sealed me in the car and ran back around to the driver's seat, shutting off the _ding ding ding_ of the key alert and forcefully clicking her seatbelt in. She gave me a tense smile before looking over her shoulder and lurching away from the curb.

"Do you have insurance?" she asked.

I nodded, mumbling that I had Kaiser through my dad. She nodded and jerked her car through stop signs and lights, letting her phone guide her to the emergency room.

Although the car moved with urgency, it was a relief to sit in the quietness and watch the noise move around us. She turned off the radio and all I could hear was the engine and muffled noises from the city outside, mixed with the quiet chewing of her gum. I felt the same unwinding I felt every night when I got home and my ears could slowly drain all the noise from Jules' as I slipped into my yoga pants and t-shirt from Shaky Grounds, my hometown coffee shop. I felt some semblance of that relief now, only my nerves were buzzing and every muscle was tense with worry about my hand.

"Is it bleeding through?" she asked, nodding toward my hand.

I could see red seeping through some of the follicles in the towel, but it wasn't going to drip into my lap. I shook my head and she bobbed hers. "Keep putting pressure on it."

When we pulled into the emergency room, she dropped me off at the curb, promising she'd be in as soon as she could park.

"That's okay, you can go home," I said. "I'll call Justine."

Santana squinted at me and said, "At least let me wait with you until she gets here."

Too anxious to argue, I shrugged and closed the door, walking in the sliding doors of the hospital as Santana zoomed away, jerking to a stop at the stop sign at the end of loading zone.

I entered the waiting room and was overwhelmed with noise again. It felt like walking into Jules', only instead of glowsticks and drinks, people had ice packs and coffee and gauze wrapped around different parts of their body. That, and there was no semblance of merriment or festivity. So it was like a super depressed version of Jules'. Nurses and attendants buzzed around like bartenders while the patients waited impatiently to place their orders and be served.

I waited in line at the reception desk and when it was my turn, I mumbled something about cutting my hand. The receptionist barely made eye contact as she asked to see my membership card, and I was about to begin the awkward dance of getting my wallet out of my purse with one hand when I felt Santana slide up beside me.

"Let me get that," she said, gently taking my purse off my shoulder. "May I?"

I shrugged again, relieved to not be holding up the line as Santana dug around and took out my wallet, unzipping it for me. I located my membership card and handed it to the receptionist, who maintained her blank stare as she punched my information into her keyboard. Then I was handed a slip of paper and told to wait until my name was called.

Judging by the crowded state of the waiting room, I was going to be there a while.

Santana sighed and set about scouting some comfortable chairs for us. She spotted two that were near the TV and rushed over, as though someone might try to claim them before us. She plopped down and patted the seat next to her. When I sat, she gently took my elbow in her hand, examining the blood-stained towel before giving me an exaggerated pout.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

"No, it feels great," I deadpanned.

She ignored my sarcasm and looked around, anxious. "You must be hungry after work, huh? Do you want me to get you some food?"

"I'm fine," I said. "I'll call Justine and she'll come wait with me."

Santana bit her lip. "I'll stay until she gets here."

On the one hand, I didn't want to deal with being around Santana. She'd hurt my feelings and confused me, and now that I was in physical pain and disoriented by my anxiety, being around her was even more confusing.

But on the other hand, having a familiar face there while I was scared was kind of comforting. I figured I could handle her company until Justine showed up.

I took out my phone and called Justine, tapping my foot as I waited for her to pick up. But she didn't. I left her a brief message telling her I was fine but needed her to call me back. Then I hung up and sighed, settling into the undetermined amount of waiting I would have to do that evening.

"You shouldn't have said that," Santana said, giving me a disapproving frown. "You don't call someone from the emergency room and say you're fine. You tell them what's going on."

I looked back down at my phone, hoping Justine had been hurrying to the phone and just missed my call and would call back any second.

"I just didn't want her to worry."

"It's okay if people worry about you," Santana said.

Before I could stop myself, I muttered, "You certainly didn't when you were fucking that girl yesterday." I thought back to Santana's mussed hair and guilty expression when I'd showed up at her house and felt anger bubble up in me.

Santana sank with guilt. "I said I was sorry," she mumbled. Then she turned suddenly, changing her mind. "But who I sleep with is really none of your business."

Surprised and suddenly defensive, I volleyed back, "You're right. You can fuck as many people you like. Have fun."

Santana let out an exasperated sigh, as if to say that accompanying me to the emergency room had been a bad idea. "Slut-shame me all you want, but I'm pretty sure you went home drunk with me that first time too. So you're in no position to judge."

I was frustrated and exhausted by my anxiety, my injury, and Santana's petulance.

Santana crossed her arms, not budging as she stared at the floor. Something about her belligerence pushed me to make sure she knew what she'd done wrong.

"You can sleep with as many people as you want, but you really shouldn't mess around with people's feelings like that."

She pursed her lips before she said, surprisingly calm. "It was never my intention to mess around with your feelings. I only wanted to mess around. From the way you were shamelessly flirting with me, I thought we were on the same page."

"I wasn't shamelessly flirting with you," I protested.

Santana looked up, a dubious expression on her face. I suddenly felt I had no right to disagree with her.

"Well if I was, it wasn't because I was looking for a quick hookup."

Santana bobbed her head. "Then it's understandable your feelings were hurt. I didn't mean to mislead you."

Her apology was so straightforward and genuine, my anger and resentment started to drain.

Furthermore, she continued. "If you're okay with it, I'd like to stay until you get some attention in this godforsaken place. Or until Justine gets here."

Convinced she wasn't a horrible person, I nodded, pressing the makeshift dressing around my injury tighter.

But one question still burned in my mind. It was the question I didn't want to think about too much because I didn't want to be an accomplice to hurting anyone else's feelings, even a stranger's. Even though I had nothing but contempt for the other girl, I needed to know who she was.

"Can I ask you one thing though?"

Santana looked at me with a hesitant nod.

"Was that girl- Was she your girlfriend?"

Santana's eyes went wide for a second before she sputtered, "_No_. No." She waved her hand as though the idea was unsavory. "I'm not—I'm not dating anyone."

Relieved, I settled back into my seat. "Okay. Just wondering."

Santana patted my arm before rocking out of her seat, declaring she was famished and was going to find food for us.

Since Justine never called me back, Santana ended up staying for all three hours I was in the emergency room. I softened more towards her than I imagined I would. At one point she could tell I was getting frustrated by having to wait so long, so she started making up hushed stories about how everyone in the emergency room had gotten their injuries. The boy with his hand stuck in a jar had been trying to make a peanut butter and pickle sandwich, and the woman throwing up into a bag had eaten too many expired cashews. One man was shifting uncomfortably on a donut pillow and she gave me a smug look and said, "We both know exactly what is going on there." I giggled and pouted, sad for the man in question, but grateful for Santana's easy humor.

By the time I'd been stitched up and released, it was two in the morning and I was more exhausted than if I'd worked at Jules' for ten hours without a break. Santana must have been tired too, but she didn't show it. She drove me to my doorstep and offered to help me unlock the door and anything else that would make it easier for me to get to sleep. I gave her a grateful, fatigued smile and declined.

The next day she texted me around ten asking how I was doing and if my hand still hurt. It did, but I told her it was fine. She sent me pouty face emoticons and wished me a swift healing. I thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn't. She showed up that evening with two boxes of "gourmet" microwave macaroni and cheese, saying it must be hard for me to cook without the use of my dominant hand. I was suspicious, wondering what she was up to, but once we settled onto the couch, she took a long sip of water and said, "Can we have a fresh start?"

I realized her gesture had been one of apology, and decided to accept it.

"Sure," I said.

She didn't make eye contact, but she looked restless. Was she asking to date me? To pretend we'd never slept together? To just see what happened? I wanted clarity, since she was so hard to read sometimes. So I asked. "As what?"

"Friends," she said immediately.

I was disappointed that she answered so certainly, as though she would never want to enter any kind of romantic scenario with me. She had told me she was single. What was wrong with me that she didn't want to entertain the possibility or being more than friends? But I liked being her friend so far. She was generous and attentive, and I supposed it didn't matter what we were as long as she kept being nice and honest.

But I also didn't know what _friends_ entailed. Was she _friends_ with the other girl too? Did friendship include sex? So I asked, "With benefits?"

She bit her lip. "Is that something you can do? And keep them separate?"

I appreciated her hesitation because it convinced me she really was looking out for my feelings. She knew not everyone could have no-strings sex. I had thought I could, but after just two times with her, I wasn't sure. So I said as much. "I'm not sure."

She bobbed her head. "Just friends, then," she said. She held up her water glass for me to clink.

Heavily, I held my water glass in my uninjured hand and tapped it to hers. "Friends."

* * *

x

* * *

I realized I would have to tell Justine about my plans with Santana at some point. If Santana was picking me up, chances were Justine would be home and see her and start making inappropriate remarks. If I told her ahead of time - but not too far ahead of time- she would get it out of her system and be polite with Santana. That was the best option.

But my plan for waiting a few days failed. I don't know what it was, but as soon as I walked in the door, it just flew out of my mouth. All she said was, "How was trampolining?' and I blurted, "She asked me on a date and I said yes."

Justine started shrieking and clapping, bouncing on the couch, incredulous. It made me wonder if she thought Santana was out of my league. Honestly, she kind of was. Santana had an exciting career and I had a boring one. Justine wouldn't have gotten so excited if Santana weren't too good for me.

I started wondering what exactly a date with Santana would entail. Would it be something fancy, like a cocktail bar in SoMa with dim lighting and posh angles and waiters who neither smiled nor made eye contact? Or would she do something lavish, like a fancy restaurant where the chef comes to your table and makes small talk before cooking something overwhelmingly delicious, yet not delicious enough to justify the preposterous bill? Or, would she opt to take me to something like the opera, plunging me into a medium I knew nothing about and would struggle to understand, feeling out of place the whole night? Or what if she was like Henry or Vance, expecting me to hook up with her so she could spread the word among the lesbians of the city? What if I was just a little project for her, something to amuse herself with, a mouse trapped in a cat's house? I didn't want her to get her claws on me. Whatever Santana had planned, I was certain I wouldn't know what to do.

That got my anxiety going again. Unlike the butterflies of attraction and flirtation, my full-force anxiety is not pleasant or light. It takes over my torso and makes me feel fragile and paralyzed. I can hardly move to do basic things like get dressed or walk to the bus. I've tried to think of a less comfortable feeling than anxiety and haven't come up with one yet.

On the day of the date, I stared into my closet, feeling the paralysis overtake me. I inched back until I felt my knees brush the bed, and lowered myself to sitting. Keeping my eyes on the hangers and sleeves before me, I drew my knees up to my chest. I didn't know what to wear, and my thoughts were flitting around in such away that I knew the decision was going to take forever. I had the cute outfit from my date with Vance, but I wasn't sure I wanted to wear that. It seemed tainted with other people's expectations.

I was about to text Santana to tell her I wasn't feeling well and ask to reschedule for the twelfth of never when Justine knocked on my door.

"Britt?" she called when I didn't respond right away.

"Yeah..."

She opened the door a crack and saw me perched on my bed in my underwear, knees drawn up to my chest.

She tilted her head and pouted. "Britt, it's gonna be fun. Don't psych yourself out."

I took a deep breath, which only seemed to inspire a flurry of more nerves in my tummy. I wanted to say something about how nervous I was or how I didn't know what to wear, but I knew I didn't need to.

Justine walked in and stepped toward the closet, scanning through a few things before she found a cocktail dress smushed against the wall, hidden by the sleeves of my winter coats. I'd forgotten about that dress. Kimi gave it to me the last time I went home for Christmas. It was a hand-me-down, but it was nice.

"Wear this," Justine said. "You can't go wrong with an LBD."

She beckoned with her hand for me to stand, and she fitted it over my arms and pulled it down, smoothing it over my hips. Then she made a swiveling motion with her finger, instructing me to turn around.

"Perfect," Justine cooed. "It makes your ass look good."

I winced and turned to face her again, but by the time I turned around, she was rummaging in my closet. She found the heels I'd bought for my date with Vance, placing them on the floor in front of me.

"Here you go, Cinderella."

I put my hand on her shoulder and slid my feet into the shoes. They didn't make me feel any steadier, but they did make my legs look nice.

Justine gave me a once-over. "She's not going to know what hit her," she grinned. "You look amazing. Although you should probably dry your hair." I sighed and Justine shepherded me into the bathroom. "I'll help."

Half an hour later, my hair looked awesome and I had calmed down enough to do my own makeup. I kept checking my watch, but since I'd taken it off, I kept feeling dumb for looking at my naked wrist. But I knew Santana would be arriving soon.

I was pacing around my room when the doorbell rang. I didn't want to pace in the living room and stir up any of Justine's vicious wit. She was being sweet, but could never pass up an opportunity for a little dig. Sure enough, she immediately called, louder than necessary, "Bri-itt! Your _date's_ here!"

My body surged with anxiety. Why was I so nervous about this? I'd never been this nervous before a date. Not with Damon, not with Henry, not with Vance, not with anyone. I felt ridiculous. Perhaps I was feeling this way because I had no business dating someone like Santana. Not someone as ambitious and refined and glamorous as she was. My body was rebelling against my mind's trying to pacify my instincts, arguing that I was smart and capable and sexy enough to get away with dating her. Now I was almost sick to my stomach with this discord, which made me want to call the whole thing off.

But Santana was at the door and Justine, my referee, wouldn't hear a single word of reasonable protest if I tried to back out now. So I set one foot in front of the other, trying to walk quietly and not incite comments from Justine.

Luckily, Justine was feeling charitable. Her eyes raked up and down my body, eyebrows lifting over a smile. It wasn't even a sarcastic smile, for once. Then she gave me a silent, animated thumbs up and whispered, "Go get 'er, tiger."

I felt self-conscious and more confident at the same time, acutely aware of my body, but also better now that I'd gotten my hipster roommate's approval on the final product. My heels were louder than my usual work flats on our worn hardwood, but I kind of liked it. They were an echo of Santana's confident steps. If I could echo her charm, then I might be deserving of her company for a night.

I put my hand on the doorknob and took a breath before twisting it, screwing my face into a confident smile as I did.

Santana was on the other side of the door, hair flowing over her shoulders, lipstick coating her bright, full lips that smiled at me under sparkling eyes. She didn't look any different than she did the other times we'd hung out. She looked as friendly and outgoing as usual, but also more relaxed. How could she look relaxed when arriving for a date?

I hadn't spoken to her since she'd asked me out. She'd texted me about a time, and I had followed the unspoken rule about communicating only by text until we saw each other. It wasn't Santana's rule or mine. I don't know _who_ created that rule, but there's this dumb rule that when you're getting to know someone and you have plans on the horizon, phone conversations are avoided in favor of drawn-out text conversations. It's not a very good use of time or phone battery, but it's just the way it is.

Santana had something in her hands, and as I looked down to see what it was, I noticed that she was dressed very casually. She had a v-neck t-shirt on and khaki skirt with a pair of flats. She looked like she was on her way out to the farmer's market or the grocery store, not a date. I stiffened with worry. Had I overdressed? She hadn't told me where we were going. I'd just assumed we were going out to dinner and maybe a bar or something. But looking at her outfit, I wasn't sure.

"Hi," she greeted.

"Hi."

"I brought this for you," she said, extending her hands toward me. I saw that she was holding a glass jar full of saltwater taffy. "My friends and I went to Santa Cruz recently and I bought too much. I know you like sweets, so I figured..." She trailed off, shrugging, and I realized that she was more nervous than I'd thought. She was second-guessing her gift, which was sweet.

"Oh, thanks," I said. It wasn't as excited and grateful as I'd intended to sound, but I was paralyzed with the doubts that were buzzing around my head.

Her hand drifted further toward me and I took the jar from her. Then, hugging it to my stomach, I dropped my head and looked down. "I think I overdressed," I muttered.

"No, you look great!" Santana responded, though her cheer seemed forced. "You look... very nice, Brittany." It sounded like she was forcing herself to use polite, neutral words and wondered what she had wanted to say instead.

"Should I change?" I asked, not convinced. "I should change."

"No no," she said, hand fluttering forward to stop me as I stepped back into the house. "No, you look great."

"Not even my shoes?" I asked, realizing that with the three inch heel, I towered over her by more than half a foot.

"Well... we are going to be walking a lot. Whatever you're comfortable in," she said with a smile.

"Okay, I'll change my shoes." I said.

"Okay," she said. "Those are cute though," she added, grinning.

"Thanks."

I was relieved to be able to backtrack into the apartment for a minute. Now that I'd seen her, I had an idea of how the night was going to go. Maybe she wasn't going to put me too far outside my comfort zone. Maybe this would be fun.

I steadied myself against the wall as I leaned into my closet, slipping off my heels and putting on a pair of plain black flats, almost like the ones Santana was wearing. Then I rushed out into the living room, whisking Santana away from Justine before she could embarrass me.

"So where are we going?" I asked once I was buckled into her car, finally letting my curiosity - or nerves - get the best of me.

Santana grinned. "You like science, right?"

"Well, _yeah_."

"The Exploratorium does these date night things where adults can come in and play with the exhibits and sample local wines. I thought that sounded like something you'd enjoy."

The Exploratorium was a hands-on museum designed for kids of all ages - including grownup kids - to explore some of the cool ways science manifested itself in the world, in particular how it interacted with our brain. Everything from optical illusions to gravity to Newtonian physics was represented in the huge collection of games and experiments.

I melted a little bit. Santana knew better than to take me somewhere too fancy. She had picked something we would both enjoy. "So it's a science nerd and wine snob date?"

Santana chuckled. "Yep."

"That's so perfect," I said, amazed that something like that even existed. "How did you think of it?"

"My friend Cassie suggested it," Santana said. "I've never been to the Exploratorium before."

"_Really_?" I said, getting excited. I couldn't wait to show Santana my favorite exhibits. I relaxed even more, realizing that I'd feel like I knew more about a few things tonight than she did. Even if I had no idea how to date a girl, I could explain cellular regeneration in my sleep.

"Really," Santana said.

"Oh man," I said, trying to contain my excitement. I didn't want to look like too much of a nerd.

But I realized Santana wanted me to be excited. She liked my nerdiness.

"I hope you won't be too disappointed if I don't pay attention to the wine, because I love this place," I said.

Santana's smile grew. "Of course. As long as you let me try a few different wines."

"Of course," I said, as though I wouldn't dream otherwise. "Do you know a lot about wine?"

"Some," Santana said, giving a one-shouldered shrug. "I know enough to be picky."

"Will you teach me?" I asked, eager to provide her the same satisfaction she'd given me with her choice for our date.

"Sure," Santana grinned, pulling into a parking lot by Pier 15.

After giving her keys to the valet, Santana gave me the cutest, most excited smile as we walked to the crosswalk. That smile relaxed me even more. She looked young when she smiled like that, and I didn't feel she was so out of my league.

When we got to the entrance, she simply handed a paper with barcodes to the person at the door. She had already paid for our tickets online. I wasn't sure how I felt about that; it was odd to have another girl paying for things all the time. But maybe this was how it worked. Maybe whoever did the asking paid for things. Maybe there wasn't such a difference between dating a boy and dating a girl.

Once we were inside, I felt like my whole body lit up with excitement. I wanted to show Santana every exhibit and explain to her what was happening beyond the simple explanations the signs gave. She snagged us each a small glass of wine, which I drank quickly so I would have both my hands free to interact with the exhibits.

My favorite section of the whole museum was the part dedicated to light. There are dozens of experiments that explore retinal adjustment, refraction, color adaptation, and how our brain can bend and distort images in a short amount of time. I felt like a fool, jabbering to Santana about everything. But when I looked up from where I was hunched over a lightbooth, she was beaming back at me. For a minute my mind went blank and all I could think about was her smile. I was suspended in that moment, captivated by her face until she lifted her glass to her lips and I realized I had stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence. I blundered my way through the rest of my explanation, feeling pink rise in my cheeks as I avoided looking at her. When I finished talking, she leaned over to see what I was talking about, asking a few more questions before she put her hand gently on my arm and offered to get me another glass of wine. Grateful, I accepted, and we wandered into a section devoted to stop-motion animation.

There were little stations where you could make an animated clip with several figures they supplied on a large desk that had a camera secured above it. Santana pushed her way past someone to get us a spot in a booth. On the animation table was a stick figure, a dog, and a caterpillar, and several other blank shapes we were supposed to use to make a short story. But instead of making a ten second movie about the same characters everyone else used, Santana pulled two tubes of lipstick out of her purse. One was red, the other pink. I sat next to her, feeling the warmth of her skin soak into my side as she made an adorable clip about two lipsticks meeting, flirting, and eventually kissing, which she did by gradually uncapping each tube in a series of pictures and having the rouge of each stick twist up and lean toward the other until they were touching. It was adorable and creative and oddly sexy. After we watched the finished product - her hand only accidently appeared in the clip once - I felt myself grow warm again, trying not to look at the red of her lips too hard.

I think Santana was the only person in the world who could have made stop-motion animation sexy.

After that, I didn't feel self-conscious about my excitement. She even encouraged me, asking questions about the live chicken embryos and laughing with me at how silly we looked in the slow-motion HD video footage booth. When we got in the car after a wonderful few hours, my throat was dry from talking about everything we'd seen. The displays had incited more nerdy explanations that I thought I was capable of in front of a pretty girl. But Santana had held her wine glass and listened attentively, nodding and smiling. I was tired, but most of me was wired with the excitement of being on a good date and letting my brain run so wild with nerdy science things. Something was swelling in my chest, and I didn't want to deflate by saying goodnight too soon.

She must have been feeling the same way, because as we pulled out of the parking lot, she turned to me. "I'm really glad you agreed to go out with me tonight."

Her voice was quiet and grateful and made me feel like my mere presence was making her happy. I didn't have to do anything. I just had to be. I hadn't felt that way since I was a teenager.

But that feeling melted when she said, "Would you like to come back to my house for a drink?"

The feeling didn't melt because I didn't want to have a drink with her. I would have loved to have kept the night going, no matter if I was drinking water or wine. The feeling melted because she wasn't really inviting me over for a drink.

It was the same thing Vance had done. He had invited me up for a drink when what he really wanted was to get in my pants. And even though I knew Santana was nothing like Vance, in all his post-frat glory, the meaning behind the words made my stomach curdle and the floating feeling in my chest wither. No matter how much I liked her, I wasn't ready to have sex with her. She had made it seem like we would take baby steps. Inviting me up to her apartment for sex wasn't a baby step. So what if I'd been with a girl before? It was still a big deal to me. It was a first time. A first time that, like every first time with someone that I cared to remember, should mean something.

The expectation she was unfairly laying on me made me chill. I hated that she was forcing me to turn her down. It was the worst way to end the evening.

I thought back to the time my mom had sat me down in her small living room in the apartment I spent half my nights in as a teen. She hadn't had much money, and worked two jobs to keep the lights on and food in our fridge. My dad wasn't much better off, but his house wasn't as shabby or his stress as palpable as my mother's.

"Brittany," my mom said, pressing the flowers on her dress into her knees in an attempt to appear calm, even though she wasn't. "If any boy ever asks you to... _make love_... and you're not ready, you don't need to give him a reason. You can just say _no thank you_. And if he doesn't listen, you get out of there as fast as you can. It doesn't matter if he's the senator's son or a millionaire. You decide when you want to... be intimate. Don't let any boy decide for you, and don't feel guilty for not giving him a reason."

I had absorbed my mom's embarrassment, which bled through in her euphemisms and the way she forcefully squared her shoulders. I nodded and kept my eyes on the floor. And even if it had been one of those horribly embarrassing conversations, what she said to me stuck. I didn't have to give someone a reason for not wanting to have sex. I could just say _no thank you_, and that was enough.

I swallowed, knowing I'd have to deliver the blow to Santana somehow. Falling back on the manners I'd been raised with, I said quietly, "No, thank you."

Santana realized she'd crossed a boundary, because I felt her zip up uncomfortably. "Okay," she said. Then, as an afterthought, she said, "I really did mean for just a drink."

I wasn't sure if anyone was so forthcoming with their intentions. I wanted to believe her, though. She was the nicest person I'd dated in a while.

"We could stop at a wine bar or something," I suggested, wanting to compromise, not to mention elongate the evening. Even though I knew I'd be getting lewd comments and questions from Justine for getting in late, I didn't care. The later I got home, the more things I had to be excited about, regardless of Justine's taunts. I would have more conversations with Santana to play over in my head, more rapt gazes to paper the walls of my mind, more graceful gestures of her wrist to memorize. I would have more things about her to savor until I saw her again. And because I hadn't been so excited about dating someone in so long, I needed those things more than ever.

Santana brightened. "Okay," she said. "There's a nice place right near here."

"Sounds good," I said, sitting up straighter. And even though a part of me panged guilty for dashing Santana's secret hopes of getting laid, I was proud that I'd stuck by my convictions.

* * *

x

* * *

I checked my watch. 10:13 and Santana wasn't there yet. I was looking forward to the opportunity to help her understand that the world I worked in wasn't corrupt or sad, but I was worried she would bail. I hoped seeing how normal the girls at the peep show were would help Santana not feel ashamed or awkward.

I was relieved when my phone buzzed. I answered and I heard Santana's sheepish voice on the other end.

"Sorry, I couldn't find parking."

"No problem!" I chirped. "Time isn't exact if you're not paying for it."

I walked to the door and opened it for her, welcoming her into the sleepy morning at the closed peep show. I took her through the dressing room and up the stairs into the fishbowl that was the Box, holding the door open for her to follow me.

Santana kept her hands close to her sides, her shoulders tense with anxiety as her eyes jumped around the room, trying to avoid her own reflection. She stepped up onto the floor where I stood, studying the mirrored walls and poles. There was a small panel that controlled the sound system in the corner, and Santana's eyes latched onto it like a lifeline.

"Is that for the music?" she asked.

I nodded and walked over to it. "That's one of the best things. I get to listen to my jams the whole time I work."

I pushed a few buttons and the speakers in the ceiling crackled a bit. Santana looked up like we were about to fall on her.

"Got any requests?" I asked. "We have just about anything you want."

"Um, no thanks," Santana said, looking behind her, seeming to startle at her own reflection.

"Aw, c'mon. You gotta have a favorite artist."

Santana pursed her lips. "Beyoncé?"

I gave a smile and a nod at Santana's predictable response. Beyoncé was clean and easy and everyone knew the words. I queued up Beyonce's _Naughty Girl_ as Santana ventured further into the room.

Just before the first tight, meaty chord of the song played, Santana whispered, "Are you sure there's no one watching us?"

I nodded as the music blared on. "Totally sure. The front door is locked and we have a security guard around the clock. The only people in the building are the dancers, and we don't go in the booths."

Santana nodded, looking a little braver as I turned the music down.

"When there are people in the booths, those little lights go on," I said, tapping the colored dots sprinkled evenly across the mirrors.

Looking at our reflections, I realized I had never been in the Box with so much clothing on. I had on jeans and a loose purple t-shirt that hung unevenly on my shoulders. Being so casual in the Box felt nice, kind of like I was just hanging out with Santana at Swivel.

Santana eyed the pole, looking up and down its full length. She seemed intrigued, as though she'd never seen a pole in person.

"So," I said, reaching for an antibacterial wipe on instinct, "Ever worked a pole?" I didn't mean to taunt her, but it was pretty obvious she hadn't.

Santana looked sheepish as she shook her head.

"Now's a good time to learn," I said with a coy smile as I wiped down a pole. "You've got an expert here ready to give you a private lesson."

Santana gave me a nervous laugh. "Oh, gosh, no. I couldn't. I wouldn't be good at it."

I let out a low chuckle. "Girls don't get hired here because we can dance well," I said, moving to wipe down the other pole. "Anyone can do it. Just ask the sixty-year-olds in the class I go to on Thursday nights."

Santana gave me an amused, inquisitive smile. "Old ladies go to pole dance?"

I nodded. "It's fun and it's great exercise. Try it," I said, tapping the pole and hearing my ring clang against the metal. "These poles are sturdy and well-loved. And clean," I added, tossing the towel towards the stairs.

"I don't know how," Santana admitted shyly.

"Can you walk?"

Santana rolled her eyes and nodded.

"Can you hold onto a pole?"

Santana nodded.

"Then you can pole dance."

"Okay," Santana said, looking down.

"What do you usually think about when you dance?" I asked.

"If I'm doing it right."

"That's doing it wrong," I said. "Don't think."

I studied Santana, stiff and constricted in her coat.

"It might help if you took off your coat."

Santana unbuttoned her coat and folded it neatly, placing it by the stairs.

"Hold on," I said, grabbing the pole and extending one leg behind me as I bent to pick up the coat. "Try that again. Slide it off your shoulders, behind your back, and then drop it."

Santana bit her lips and nodded. She took the coat and put it back on, then slid it off her shoulders in one slinky movement before dropping the coat behind her, looking up at me through her eyelashes with a flirtatious, fleeting glance before her gaze fell back to the floor.

"Nice!" I said. "Love the flirty eyes."

Santana giggled nervously again and tucked her hair behind her ears.

"So now, just take the pole in your hand. Walk around it, get to know it. See if there are any dings or smudges on it. Study it like you have to write a story about it or cook it for dinner."

Santana took the pole in her hand, flexing her fingers once before gripping it firmly, hand sliding as she walked around it in a slow circle. She slid her eyes up the gleaming metal, seeming to own it with that mere glance.

"Now lean away and arch your back."

As the cadence on the music built, Santana bent her knees and leaned back at a stiff angle, tilting off her own balance, arm rigid as she gripped the pole.

"Easy, easy... It won't let you go."

Santana jolted up, letting go of the pole and tucking her hair behind her ears again. "I can't do this," she muttered.

"Yes, you can," I said.

"It's weird," Santana said, eyes skirting the room. "I just imagine all the guys behind the glass and I know my boyfriend would be upset if he knew I was dancing on a pole when other people could see." Santana fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, pulling it down and straightening her collar.

I shrugged to lighten the mood. "So imagine he's the only one watching."

Santana's eyes widened. "I would _never_ dance for him like this."

I quirked my head. "Why not?"

Santana shrugged, seeming to burrow inside herself as she looked for an answer that wouldn't offend me.

"What if you just dance for yourself?"

"It's hard with all the mirrors. I think about how I'm not doing something right. That's why I had to drop out of ballet when I was little."

I couldn't help myself as I let out a soft _aww_ at the thought of Santana as a little girl, dressed in a pink tutu, just as stiff and timid as she was now.

She glanced at her watch and I realized it was probably almost time for my shift.

"I have to get ready for my shift soon," I said, scrunching my nose to convey I didn't want to say goodbye to her. "Do you have any more questions?"

"A thousand," Santana murmured.

For the first time since I met her, I felt I was seeing the full extent of Santana's curiosity. She was still shy and easily embarrassed, but she wasn't letting that stop her from wondering about things. I liked that more than I knew was possible.

"Go ahead and ask." My voice was calm and still like a placid lake, holding none of the flirty playfulness I intended. "I'll just put my makeup on while we talk."

Santana nodded and followed me back down the steps into the dressing room. But as I settled in front of the mirror, she didn't ask anything. So I started talking. "We see every type of customer you could imagine," I said. "CEOs, barely legal frat boys, old men..."

Santana bit her lip, hesitant. "Do you ever see any girls?"

"Not as many as I wish," I said. "But those booths are pretty gross, so I get why they don't want to come in."

"What do you mean?"

"Let's just say a fresh coat of paint wouldn't take care of it," I said with a wink.

"Oh... Right," Santana said, looking at the floor as I tapped foundation onto a sponge and began running it over my cheekbones and jaw.

"Once in awhile we get women in the Private Pleasures Booth, but usually with boyfriends or husbands."

Santana nodded and I reached for my eyeliner as Callie walked into the dressing room.

"Hey, Vi," Callie chirped, setting down her bag. "How's it going?"

"Good." I smiled at her through the mirror, holding the skin of my eye taught as I greeted her. "How are you feeling?"

"So much better!" Callie sighed, unwrapping her scarf. "That zinc stuff you gave me really works."

"I told you," I said, happy my friend was feeling better.

"New girlfriend?" Callie asked, smiling at Santana.

Santana squirmed next to me.

"She's a friend," I said. "She's doing an exposé on stripping and I gave her an inside look at our fine little establishment."

"Nice!" Callie said. "Did you find any _sad_ strippers?" she asked, giving an exaggerated pout before winking at Santana.

"No," Santana said, giving Callie a reserved, polite smile.

"Good." Callie pulled off her coat, hanging it on the rack before pulling her shirt off and slinging it over as well, soon followed by her bra.

At that moment Santana seemed to remember she was in a strip club. She zipped herself up and said softly to me, "I should get going. Thanks for the tour."

"Did you get everything you wanted?"

Santana hummed a response and stood, straightening her purse strap on her shoulder. "Thanks again."

I paused from putting on my makeup to turn and look at Santana directly, rather than through the mirror. "I'd love to read your article once you publish it," I said with a warm smile.

Santana gave me a nervous nod as Callie removed her pants and draped them over the rest of her clothes.

"Sure. I'll email you."

I rummaged through my makeup bag to find one of my business cards. The glossy, purple card had a strand of pearls along the bottom and a black and white photo of my torso in an expensive corset. "There's my email address," I said, pointing to my Jezebel email address.

"And here," I offered, taking the card back. "Here's my phone number."

I scratched my number into the card and handed it back to her.

Santana studied the card and thanked me before rushing out, clutching her purse.

I turned back to the mirror and began applying eyeliner to my other eye. From the other side of the dressing room, Callie muttered, "How much effort are you planning to put into that before you give up?"

I clucked my tongue. "She's just writing an article. I gave her a tour."

"Uh-huh," Callie said skeptically. "And our customers come here to listen to the music."

I ignored Callie's comment and tilted my head, making sure I had lined my eyes evenly.

I touched up one eye before applying a bright pink blush to my cheeks, adorning one with a fake beauty mark. I squeezed a thin line of glue onto my false lashes and held them on one at a time, admiring the tiny rhinestones that were nestled between the lashes.

I loved this part of my job.

As I put on my makeup, I went from being Brittany to being Violet. Violet was free, powerful, and wild. Brittany was those things too, but behind the makeup and the wig and the lashes, I could project anything I wanted to be. On some days I played shy with myself in the mirror, pretending to be a schoolgirl exploring my body for the first time. On some days I played the vixen, donning leather and boots and ordering Callie or Sandra around for the spectators. And on other days I was a slave to the pole, dancing until I was drenched with sweat.

But one person I never was in the Box was Brittany. No customer had ever seen me do a striptease or touch myself. How could they, when I was disguised like this? I would only ever be Violet to them. My shift was uneventful and I went home and made curried chicken salad for Justine and I for dinner.

Santana texted me a few days later. _Hey I have a few questions for you. Do you have time to meet?_

I had felt so good about the things I'd said in our first interview and the way I'd handled her less graceful questions. I really believed I'd helped her see that sex workers aren't bad or depraved or desperate. Well, at least not all. I'd felt so good about it for the last few days, I was excited she wanted to talk again.

And she was cute, but that was neither here nor there. Mostly I just liked talking to her and watching her face as she thought so hard I could almost see smoke coming out of her ears.

_Sure!_ I texted back. _I'm free all day tomorrow._

We met in the same coffee shop we'd originally met in, and I ordered her drink for her and waited by the window. When she arrived, she looked as nervous as when she'd arrived at Jez. I didn't know why. She had asked for a second interview and hopefully by then she knew I wasn't scary.

"Aw, you got my coffee for me," she said, smiling as she set down her purse.

I made a dismissive gesture, like it was no big deal. Since I had been known to make over eight hundred dollars an hour, the cost of her coffee was literally something I'd earned in ten seconds. I could spare much more than ten seconds to make a pretty girl smile.

She sat down and scooted her chair forward, a nervous smile plastered on her face. She took a sip and let out an appreciative hum before she looked at me with a guilty expression.

"So what did you want to know?" I said, gesturing with my hands that I was an open book. I was, after all. Quite an open book. An open body. And I hoped, most importantly, an open mind.

"Well, actually," she said, mumbling as she leaned closer and studied the table. "It's not for the article. I already submitted that. I was hoping you could help me with something else."

At that I grew suspicious. I had agreed to a second interview, and apparently that wasn't what Santana had wanted.

"Oh... kay...," I said, letting her know I was cautious.

"It's just-" Her body language grew more agitated and I could tell she was embarrassed by what she was about to say. "I was hoping you could help me with some... sex stuff."

I almost laughed, but thankfully I had just taken a sip of my cocoa and had the self-control to prevent anything from coming out my nose. That would have hurt.

I swallowed. "Sex stuff?"

Santana gave a relieved but still sheepish nod. "Isaiah and I... Well, we've been together so long, and it's just not exciting. I figured you know a lot about sex, so maybe... I don't know, you'd have some ideas?"

I raised my eyebrows to convey how surprised and uncertain I was about the direction of our conversation and set my cup down.

"I'm a stripper, not a sex therapist," I hedged.

"No, I know," Santana hushed. "I don't want to make it a big deal with him. I don't think he'd want to go to a... sex therapist anyway." She tucked her hair behind her ear and smoothed something invisible on the table. "I think it's just me."

Hearing her blame herself for whatever boring sex they were having made me sad. I wanted her to know that I wasn't exactly a sex connoisseur myself, so I lowered my voice and leaned in, trying to be gentler with her.

"I don't actually know that much about sex," I said in a dramatic whisper, as though I was telling an exciting secret. "I only know how to sell it."

Santana looked up at me with a disappointed furrow of her brow. "Well... that could still probably help me."

"You need help selling sex to your boyfriend?" I asked, raising my eyebrows. It was hard to believe that any straight man would need to be talked into having sex with Santana. She was beautiful and smart and the lines of her body I'd seen were toned and graceful, albeit guarded.

"Well, kind of," Santana said, embarrassed. "Maybe if I were more convincing it would be better."

I bit my lip and tried not to look uncertain. I had no idea what was going on between her and Isaiah, and from her resistance to being specific when talking about it, I didn't think I'd find out. But I had an idea of where to start. "Does he make it enticing for _you_?"

Santana looked up at me with a confused expression on her face. "To me?" she asked, as though it hadn't occurred to her.

"Yeah. Does he take time to, you know, get you in the mood?"

Santana's eyes flickered to the side. "I mean, he holds me and kisses me and tells me I'm beautiful."

"You are," I blurted.

Santana seemed startled and dodged the compliment. "I guess I just feel, like... this _guilt_ all the time. We're not having that much sex, so when we do, I feel guilty about it, like I should be doing it more often. Because he's _so_ sweet to me." She trailed off, then gave a guilty chuckle as she said. "He took me on a surprise weekend trip to wine country for my birthday the other week and got me a massage and a manicure and everything. For his birthday last year I got him a box of frozen steaks and a card." She paused with a sad smile on her face, remembering the adoration Isaiah had heaped on her.

"So you have sex with him because he does nice things for you?"

"No- no," Santana said, uncertain. "I mean, after he does something nice, yes, we have sex. And I love him... I just- I don't know, something's missing."

I nodded for a minute, then asked the obvious question. "Are you attracted to him?"

Santana gave an unconvincing nod and a shrug. "Everyone thinks he's attractive."

I gave her an amused smile. "That wasn't the question."

Santana seemed embarrassed. "I mean... yeah, I guess. We've been together awhile. People get used to each other."

I thought about my first boyfriend and how the sex had still been electric after five years. I wondered if we'd just been lucky to escape sexual boredom or if the decline of sex was an indicator of the relationship in general.

"But the rest of the relationship is good?" I asked.

Santana nodded, more sure of herself. "I think so. I mean, I'm not sure where we're going, but we don't fight or anything."

"Are you living together?"

Santana's eyes widened as she looked down at her coffee. "No. I don't want to think about that yet."

I nodded. "It's cool. You have time."

Santana nodded, seeming to need the reassurance. "I have time."

I smiled, trying to give her the reassurance she was seeking.

"Except I don't really have time," she whispered. "He was hinting at it the other day. I just don't know what to say."

Now I felt as awkward as Santana looked. Why did she think I'd have some kind of wisdom or perspective on relationships that she didn't? I'd been single for a long time, aside from a brief fling with a coworker, and taking my clothes off for money didn't make me any older or wiser than Santana was.

But now there was a silence I felt obligated to fill. So I gave her the same advice I would have given a new girl on her first day in the Booth.

"As long as you don't do anything you don't want to do, you're fine," I said. Then I tailored my generic advice to her. "Have sex when you want to, don't when you don't. If you're not ready to move in with him, say so. Honesty is always good."

Santana bit her lip, brow furrowing as though my simple answer hadn't been what she was looking for, but she knew there wasn't a better one. "Yeah, I guess."

Noting that we both still had most of our coffee to drink and it would be impolite to dash out just because I felt awkward, I started grasping for straws.

"So tell me about journalism school. How'd you decide to do that?"

Santana let out a self-conscious giggle that sounded like a wince. "Oh, I was writing this thing in college and Isaiah saw it and told me I'd be good at journalism... I didn't really have a plan for after college, so I followed him out here."

I nodded, feeling like I was beginning to understand more about her dynamic with her boyfriend. He supported her and hopefully wasn't a jerk, but it seemed like he protected her to the point of watering her down. It happened to a lot of girls I knew in college. Hopefully at least Santana was happy.

"I didn't have a plan for after college either. That's how I ended up with a Master's in Neuroscience," I said, rolling my eyes. "What were you writing that Isaiah saw?"

Santana let out another self-deprecating laugh. "It was silly..."

"Tell me."

She rolled her eyes at herself and took another sip of coffee. "It was this project for an English class I was taking. I went around interviewing the little-knowns at our school."

"Little-knowns?"

"Yeah. The cafeteria lady who'd been working there for twenty years, the stadium custodial manager... I even figured out who played the school mascot and got an interview."

Suddenly Santana was much more interesting to me. It was hard to imagine her seeking out interviews with the people she was talking about, but apparently she had.

"How'd you decide to do that?" I asked, leaning forward to convey how interested I was.

Santana gave another uncertain shrug. "There are so many people that become the fabric of a community but never get documented. When they die, they just fade away with their stories. And those are some of the best stories."

I remembered a man in my hometown who used to walk down the road where my elementary school was. He walked the same route every morning and every evening, when the weather permitted, wearing the same pair of running shorts he'd had since the eighties. He wore a hat that had a wide brim and a neck flap. Since he always walked on one side of the road that was slightly curved, he leaned to the side to compensate for the angle. When I had first learned to talk, I would say, "There's the crooked man!" to my mom every morning on the way to nursery school and any other time I saw him walking. As I got older, my enthusiasm faded, but I still thought _crooked man_ to myself every time I saw him. He was as comforting as the banister I placed my hand on every night as I walked upstairs to go to bed. Listening to Santana talk, I realized he was part of the fabric of my hometown. I grew curious about his story. Did he have a family? Why did he always walk at the same time? Were the soles of his shoes worn in a slant because of the curve in the road? These were questions I realized I might never get the answer to.

"Are there papers that have columns about little-knowns?"

Santana laughed the question off. "No. That kind of stuff doesn't keep readers intrigued. Maybe as a one-shot, but nothing steady or reliable."

"Huh..." I studied her for a minute, appreciating the depth she had hinted at. Only someone really interesting would want to get to know everyday legends like she was talking about.

"Have you ever considered doing a San Francisco edition?" I asked.

Santana shook her head, taking another sip of her coffee. "I wouldn't know where to start."

I sat up straighter, determined to encourage her curiosity because it was fueling my own.

"I know precisely who we should start with."

Santana quirked her eyebrow. "We?"

I gave a shrug to indicate I didn't mean to encroach on her project. It did sound pretty cool though. "I'd love to tag along on some interviews, if you're open to it. I'm good at asking tricky questions without offending people. Like how strippers feel about their work or how someone got into prostitution."

Santana's eyes flickered away with embarrassment, and I thought maybe I'd been too harsh in my critique of her journalism skills. But then she gave a hesitant smile and said, "Okay."

"Yeah?" I asked, surprised and hopeful.

She nodded and wrapped her hands around her cup.

"Good," I said, patting the table. "'Cuz we're starting with the San Fran Bush Man."

Santana gave me a funny frown. "The guy in the Wharf who hides behind a shrub and scares tourists?"

I gave her an eager nod. "He's been doing it for thirty years."

"But everyone knows him," she said. "He's not a little-known."

"True," I admitted. "But you gotta hook readers in with something they're familiar with. Once they start reading, you can write about more interesting things."

Santana stared at me for a moment before giving me a shy smile. "Okay."


	7. Hum

**A/N: I'm so glad people are enjoying this so far! As we get further into the story, I'm having more and more fun. Thanks to JJ for keeping the party going and to all of you for reading.**

* * *

**Chapter 7: Hum**

* * *

So here's what you missed on Dandelion: Bar!Britt cut her hand and Santana took her to emergency room where they finally talked about Santana sleeping with another girl and Santana was honest and they decided to be just friends. Lab!Britt went on her first date with Santana, who was super adorable and flirty without getting handsy or out of line at all, but then she invited Brittany back to her house for a drink and Brittany got all flustered because she assumed Santana wanted to have sex, so she said no. Violet gave Shy!Santana a tour of Jezebel Rose and later Santana asked for sex advice to spice things up with her long-time boyfriend Isaiah, and now Violet and Santana have plans to interview an iconic street performer in Fishermans' Wharf. And that's what you missed!

* * *

Santana's phone was vibrating against my coffee table. It had been doing so for about a minute. At first I thought it had been a call, but when I tilted my head to see the screen over the glare from the window, I saw it was an alarm. I wondered why Santana had an alarm set for three in the afternoon.

Regardless, she was fast asleep, curled in a ball on my couch, and she wasn't hearing her phone.

I slid my foot forward so it was under her calf. "Santana," I whispered, jiggling my foot. "Your phone's going off."

She stirred but didn't wake.

I poked at her a little harder with my foot. "Santana!" I hissed. "Your alarm!"

At that she wriggled and frowned, displeased at being woken up. Then she opened her eyes and seemed startled. Her hand darted forward and grabbed the phone off the coffee table, sliding the alarm off as she got her bearings. Then she lifted her head, surveying the living room with a grumpy, disoriented expression.

"Shit... When did I fall asleep?"

"About halfway through _Midnight Cowboy_," I said, tilting my head toward the DVD case on the table.

In the emergency room a week before, after the tension had died down, we'd been talking about my film class as an undergrad. When we started hanging out the next day, she'd asked me to screen my favorite movies for her. So we'd started with American classics.

"Shit... I'm sorry," she mumbled, smoothing her hair on one side of her head. "That's what I get for staying up to help you close."

I smiled, adoring her grumpy little face in what I hoped looked like the friend way. "I told you, I can work just fine with one hand."

"You wouldn't have gotten home until five if I hadn't helped you."

"True," I said, grinning. Then I let the energy settle as my smile faded at the memory of her wiping down tables and stacking chairs as I attempted to close the bar single-handedly. All week she'd been taking care of me, helping me with everything but bathing and dressing. "Thank you," I murmured.

She shrugged it off and sat all the way up and sighed. "I gotta go to class." She scrolled through a few things on her phone and then shivered. "Aren't you cold? It's _freezing_ in here!"

I didn't point out that she had hogged the entire afghan at the beginning of the movie and that I didn't think it was really that cold, but I supposed that her body was used to a different climate, having grown up in Texas.

"I'm gonna freeze my ass off on the way to class," she muttered.

"Here," I said, shrugging out of my sweatshirt and handing it to her. "You can borrow it so you don't have to go back to your place and get to class late."

She paused and then gave me a grateful smile. "Thanks," she said softly. She studied it in her hands before lifting it over her head and pulling it down. "Warmer already," she said, without making eye contact.

I tried to keep my smile steady as she stood, collecting her hair into a messy bun, then gathered her belongings as she headed out the door. She gave me a cheerful wave and a promise to see me soon before she closed the door and I heard her feet thundering down the stairs towards the street.

This was how it had been for the last week. Somehow deciding we were friends had meant that we saw each other every day, shared every annoyance and joke, and fell asleep at each other's houses. Well, mostly she fell asleep at mine, since Justine and I had a TV and she just had her laptop and watching a movie on her laptop together would mean snuggling up in bed and that would just be too romantic for such good friends. But I loved knowing she'd be there to hear the latest stories from the bar and to share a nice glass of wine and to just sit quietly with while stories played out in front of us. She never disappointed me. Well, at least not as a friend.

But being her friend felt like drinking the watered down end of a good drink, when the ice has melted but you're still thirsty and want to get your money's worth, so you drain the cup through your straw until all you have is the remnants of ice cubes, the dissatisfaction of the diluted flavors, and an understandable desire to order another drink, no matter how drunk you already are. Some drinks are just that good. Or at least Santana was.

Later that day as I entered the laundromat with Justine and several large bags of laundry, I was flooded by a smell that now only reminded me of Santana. I felt the pleasant tension in my belly start to increase, excited by her mere proximity - which I know is not how you're supposed to feel about a friend. I was trying hard to control it. But it's hard, you know? Hard to get your body to stop doing something it just does on its own, like breathing or pumping blood through you. Trying to get my body not to respond to Santana was like trying to stop my heart from beating. It just didn't work.

I distracted myself by sorting the laundry with Justine, making sure I had put stain remover on any articles that needed it. It was awkward and slow, since my hand was still bound in its dressings. The stitches wouldn't come out for another few days, but the pain and swelling had mostly gone down, and I had more mobility every day.

After the machines were whirring, Justine left, promising she'd be back in an hour to help me lug our clothes home. Since it was cold, we had to use the dryers.

As soon as Justine left, I couldn't control myself from texting Santana. She was right upstairs, and I could almost feel her warmth radiating through the floor, drawing the scent of the fabric softener into her skin. I knew she was home because I could see her pale gold SUV across the street, parked haphazardly, though not to an extent that would warrant a ticket. I just wanted to see her and make sure she wasn't too stressed out and hear what she'd been up to since I'd seen her last, which had been... a few hours ago.

So even though it straddled the line between friends and more, I texted her. _Hey, I'm downstairs doing laundry. What are you up to?_

She replied immediately, not answering my question, but giving a far better response. _Come up :)_

Feeling gravity leave most of my body, I rose from my chair and walked out of the laundromat, not even caring that someone could steal my clothes. Why would I need clothes? They were just things.

I waited at the gate for her to come down and open it for me, and she was grinning through the bars. But she looked different. She looked less polished, more genuine, like she had just woken up from another nap or something. And most noticeably, she was wearing glasses. They looked so cute on her, I wanted to take a picture so I could remember what she looked like with them on all the time.

"I didn't know you wore glasses," I said, smiling.

"Oh," Santana said, startling. "Yeah, just for reading."

She lifted her hand to take them off, but I stopped her. "No, they're cute, leave them on," I said. Then I realized I was venturing towards talking about her attractiveness and that was sticky territory. I'd had enough trouble controlling myself around her lately without deliberately talking about how pretty and hot she was. "I mean, unless you can't see other things with them on. Like if they make me look like a giant pink marshmallow."

As soon as I said it I felt dumb. Giant pink marshmallow? Way to make myself sound sexy.

Santana paused with her fingers on the rim of her glasses, then smiled and said, "No, no marshmallows."

She lowered her hand, and I really wanted her to say something like, _Just you, Britt._ But she didn't. Had she ever called me Britt? I couldn't remember. But I really wanted her to.

"You can call me Britt," I said before I realized what I was saying.

"Okay..." she said, frowning in confusion at my random invitation.

"I mean, all my friends do," I explained. Begrudgingly, I offered more stupid explanation that I didn't want to be true, but felt safer when I included it. "And you're my friend, so you should call me what my friends do."

"Right," Santana said, turning to walk up the stairs ahead of me.

We entered her apartment, which was in less disarray than usual.

"Hey, you cleaned!" I cheered. "It looks good!"

She gave skeptical expression and said, "Yeah, I do that like every three or four months."

I tried to laugh, but it didn't feel right. Something about her messy studio was sad, like she was constantly surrounded by her own chaos. But it was comfortable. Her apartment didn't seem like hers when it was clean.

"I clean when I'm stressed out," I said, offering something about myself. "Justine always knows I'm upset when she comes home to a clean house."

My mind flickered back to my last big cleaning spree, which had been brought on by walking up to this very apartment and discovering Santana barely past the throes of passion with another girl. I sank a little bit. I didn't like thinking about that, or how I still very much wanted to be naked around her.

Santana raised her eyebrows. "God, I'm the opposite. Cleaning stresses me out."

"If you ever want me to come over and clean, let me know," I offered, before realizing how strange that sounded. Did friends offer to come over and clean each other's houses? Probably not.

"Thanks," she mumbled. There was a moment of awkward silence before she took a breath and plastered on a smile. "So how are you? How's your hand?" she asked, gesturing towards the dressings. She'd asked me this question several times a day for the past week.

"It's okay," I shrugged.

And then there was more awkward silence. I wanted to fill it, but I didn't trust myself to not speak what was on my mind, which was how beautiful she was, how smart she was, and how painful it was to just be her friend.

I reasoned with myself that for now it was probably good to be just friends, since we were still getting to know each other and my hand would have made having sex incredibly difficult, since I'd have to use my left hand. And even though I knew that was terrible logic, it was the only thing I had to convince myself that being just friends was okay.

Just when the silence was getting excruciating, Santana looked up at me as though she'd had a sudden thought.

"Hey, you get your stitches out on Friday, right?"

Relieved for the change of subject, I nodded.

"We should celebrate," she said. "Friday night is Cockblock at the Rickshaw Stop. Wanna go?"

Without hesitation, I said yes, though not without joking that I couldn't wait to see what a birthday would entail if getting my stitches out warranted going to a lesbian party. She quirked her eyebrow in a way that made my tummy flutter and said, "You'll have to wait and see."

I had been to Cockblock once before, and while it was fun, it was also disappointing in that none of the girls had asked to dance with me. So I'd danced with Justine the whole night, which was fun enough. But dancing with Santana was sure to be better.

As Friday approached, I found myself wondering how exactly two girls who both like girls and are attracted to each other but are just friends would go about dancing. Was there a specific distance we should keep from each other, or could I dance on her like I'd danced on Justine?

Or maybe - my heart raced at the thought - maybe Santana was taking me dancing because she had changed her mind. Maybe she _did_ want to date me and this was kind of a trial date. I grew excited at the possibility, even though I knew it was my hopeless romantic tendencies rising up for an opportunity to be crushed.

Santana arrived at my house that night, dress and makeup bag in hand. She was giddy and happy, as though she'd already had a drink and was high on party vibe. But she hadn't had a drink, I could tell. She was just excited to be around lesbians. I was excited too, but not because of the lesbians. I just really liked being around Santana, especially when she was this happy.

After Santana wriggled into her impossibly form-fitting dress, she fluffed her hair over her shoulders and examined me. "What are we gonna do with you, sister?" she asked, hands on her hips. She marched over to my closet and rifled through my clothes before finding a short pleather skirt and sequined tank top. "I am pleasantly surprised with the contents of your closet," she said, as though she'd expected to find nothing but button-downs, hoodies, and yoga pants. She tossed the clothing at me and said, "Put these on."

I started heading for the bathroom when she called after me, "Wait!"

I turned back and found her holding up a finger as she bent into my closet. She picked up my shiny black pumps and held them out to me with a wicked smile. "These too."

I loved her confidence in my ability to pull off a daring outfit, so I scampered into the bathroom to change before I realized that I didn't have the proper undergarments. I went back into the bedroom to find Santana peering at herself in the mirror on my dresser as she did something with her eyebrow and a small brush. I wasn't exactly sure what she was doing. My Dutch heritage had graced me with thin, easy-to-maintain eyebrows, so eyebrow shaping as an art form was completely foreign to me.

"Underwear," I said, pointing to the drawer in front of Santana.

Santana opened the drawer and started rifling through my underwear.

I was stunned for a moment, then anxious, hoping my underwear weren't too shabby or - god forbid - stained. Why was she looking through my underwear? That was kind of... not a _friend_ thing to do. At least not for two girls who both liked girls but were just friends.

I had realized there were different rules for us than for straight girls. We didn't change in front of each other, nor could we talk about our boobs or waxing habits like straight girls did. But other than those absolutes, I wasn't sure what our rules were. All I knew was we had to stay strictly above water or any other kind of wetness.

"Thong or boy short?" Santana asked.

"Uh-" I stuttered. "Uh, thong."

Santana's hand sifted through a few garments before finding my skankiest black lace thong and tossing it toward me. As she did, she looked up at me and winked.

What did that wink mean? Did it mean that she enjoyed knowing what I'd be wearing under the skirt she'd selected for me? Was she flirting? Implying she wanted to take them off later? Was it evidence that supported my theory that this was a trial date? _What the fuck did that wink mean?_

I tried not to think about it too hard as I went into the bathroom, shimmied out of my current underwear, and slid my legs into the flimsy thong. I zipped the skirt up and wondered again if this evening was more of a date than I'd anticipated. Did two single girls who liked girls and were attracted to each other go out dancing as just friends? Why was my brain making this so difficult?

Justine told me once that I'm great at following my instincts in every capacity _but_ my love life. As questions turned over and over in my head, surging together into anxiety and excitement, I wished that for once I could actually hear my instincts about Santana. Maybe if I could turn off my thoughts and questions, things would be clearer.

After I pulled the sequined tank top over my head and slid into my fuck-me pumps, - Justine's words, not mine - I ventured back into my bedroom, heels staking the ground. When I appeared in the doorway, Santana turned away from the mirror. Her jaw half-fell as her eyes swooped over me. "_Damn_, girl," she said. "The girls will be on you like flies on Lady Gaga's meat dress."

Frowning at her strange analogy, I said, "Is that a _good_ thing?"

Santana scoffed, looking me up and down again. "Trust me, it's a good thing." Then she turned back to the mirror and continued applying eyeliner.

While Santana seemed engrossed in adding to her already stunning beauty, the quietness after a compliment made me feel awkward. "Should I put on more makeup?" I asked. Surely an outfit at outrageous as the one she'd selected for me warranted more than a coat of mascara and tinted chapstick.

Santana finished her second eyelid and then turned to me with a readably platonic smile. "Want me to do it?"

I nodded and a minute later she had seated me on the bed. With her face mere inches from mine, she dragged brushes over my cheeks and eyelids and waved wands over my eyelashes and lips. Her closeness and warmth were so palpable, I worried I was leaning too far forward to get closer to her, to breathe her air, to see if I could taste her. But after what felt like just two minutes, she patted my knee and said, "There you go. All done."

I opened my eyes and walked over to the mirror, stunned by my sudden transformation. She had made me up to be a modern-day pinup girl, glamorous with dramatic lashes and lips. Even though at first it was shocking, I loved it. I giggled and smoothed my hands over my skirt. I looked good, she looked amazing, and we were ready to go.

As we walked out to the street, I brought up the question I always asked my friends, "Who's driving?"

"I'm the only one with a car," she said, frowning at me.

"I mean which one of us is going to stay sober enough to drive?"

"Oh." Santana's face shifted in understanding. "I... dunno."

Always uncomfortable with people who didn't think to designate a sober driver, I volunteered myself. The peace of mind was worth the slight curb in partying. I didn't really mind. "I'll drive," I said. "As long as you're comfortable with me maneuvering that thing," I said, gesturing toward her car.

She nodded and handed me her keys, a mess of rings and lanyards and club cards. "Have at it."

Once we arrived, we found parking right away and approached the door with excitement as we dug our IDs out of your bras to show the bouncer. The cover was ten dollars, and Santana pulled out a twenty and said, "I got you," as she handed it to the girl stamping our hands. As we entered the throng of girls inside, I felt my body race with hope and excitement. Paying for me was a sign this was maybe a date.

Santana made a beeline for the bar, dragging me behind her. She ordered a vodka cranberry and asked me what I wanted, assuring me I could have one drink and be fine to drive, since we would be here a while. I ordered the same as she had, pulling money out to pay for my drink. Santana didn't object, so I paid and tipped the bartender well, pleased to be on this side of the counter for once.

Then we pressed into the dance floor. It was crowded and hot and I could barely hear myself think, but that was the point of these things, right? To lose yourself in a crowd of people who were also trying to lose themselves? As long as I didn't lose Santana, I'd be fine.

We pushed halfway toward the stage before Santana turned to face me, holding her drink up to tap against mine, indicating that the party was really starting now. And then she started dancing, almost as though to herself, head down as her limbs loosened and her hips started grinding out the beat. I was taking my cues from her, so I sipped my drink and mirrored her motions.

It didn't take long for the crowd to shift and for other bodies to press towards us. I held my ground, wanting to protect the few square feet Santana had staked out for us. A few jerks of my elbows was all it took.

And then I noticed that Santana's hips were fitted into someone else's, a pair of hands resting on her sides as she rocked and bobbed. Someone's face appeared next to hers. I watched her carefully to see how she'd react, and felt my stomach sink when she smiled and pressed back, playful and dirty as she ground her pelvis against the other girl's. I tried to pretend I hadn't noticed. In this crowd, maybe it wouldn't look like I was dancing alone.

And then, to my shock and delight, there were a pair of hands on my hips, ushering me back against someone. Surprised, I looked over my shoulder to find a girl about Santana's height, with long dark hair and olive skin, but otherwise completely different. She was wearing low-slung camouflage shorts with boxers peeking over the edge, a tank top, and barely a stitch of makeup on her smooth, feminine face. She looked up at me with a smile and held my hips steady, waiting to see if I'd respond.

Figuring I should enjoy my night out regardless of who I danced with, I pressed back. I wasn't going to let Santana ruin my fun.

I danced with the other girl until the end of the next song, and then felt it appropriate to peel back and look her square in the face rather than just feeling her curves where they melding into mine from behind. She was strong and fit, but I didn't know anything else about her. I looked at her face under her cute little backwards pageboy hat and smiled.

"Girl, you got some moves," she said as her eyes flickered to my hips.

"Thanks."

"I'm Callie," the girl said, shifting her drink to her other hand and extending her right, motions confident and stiff.

"Brittany," I said, mirroring her motion.

"Nice to meet you, Brittany," she said, smile turning flirtatious as she pulled me back into her, facing each other this time.

And because she was nice and I liked the way she made me feel, I kept dancing with her, hoping it would make Santana jealous to see Callie's hands running over the back of my pleather skirt.

I danced the next few songs with Callie, trying not to be obvious as I looked over my shoulder to see if Santana was watching. I couldn't quite glimpse her, so I kept grinding down into Callie, letting my moves become dirtier as the music thumped on. Callie would encourage me with little _Yeahh_s or a _Damn girl_, and it made me feel better about Santana. Who was Santana to pass someone like me up? She was missing a great opportunity.

After a while, Callie put her hands on my waist possessively and smiled, as though she were pleased to have monopolized my evening so far. "You wanna move up there?" she asked tilting her head towards the stage at the back of the room.

The stage wasn't used as an actual stage as far as I could tell, but more of a showcase for people who thought their moves were particularly awesome and should be featured. Some people were sorely mistaken as to what constituted awesome moves, of course.

And then, between the two boxes that served as poor girls' go-go cages, my eyes zeroed in on Santana, writhing against a tall, blonde girl who had her hands all over Santana's hips and stomach and thighs while Santana maintained a smug smile, raising her arms above her as she ground her ass back into her.

I started to burn. Why would Santana bring me here just to ditch me for other girls? It was insulting. She'd invited me out to "celebrate" when really she just wanted to slut it up with strangers on the dance floor. Why hadn't I seen it coming?

Taking any opportunity to let Santana know what she was missing, I nodded and took Callie by the wrist, dragging her through the crowd towards the stage.

We made it up there, teetering on the edge of the crowded stage until we found enough room, perilously close to one of the girls dancing on a box, and resumed our bobbing and rutting. Callie was a good dancer, but most importantly, she made me feel irresistible.

The night wore on, lost in thumping and swaying and grinding. Callie's hands roamed freely over my body, but I didn't mind. She never ventured under my clothing, so I didn't feel the need to reel her in. I lost track of Santana for a while, and then spotted her across the room by the bar, laughing as she teetered forward on her heels into a different girl, this one with brown hair and sparkly earrings. She picked two glasses up from the counter, still giggling at something, and then forged her way through the crowd, the brunette trailing behind her.

I willed myself not to care. It would be so much easier if I didn't care.

And then, magically, Santana appeared below me on the floor, smiling up at me as she held up a cup. She yelled something, but I couldn't hear, so I frowned, not moving away from Callie.

"Water!" Santana said. "I thought you'd be thirsty!"

I leaned forward and thanked her as I took the cup, draining it before handing it back to her. Then I turned around and placed my hands on Callie's shoulders, not ready to forgive Santana for ditching me just yet.

Only a few beats later, I felt another set of hands on my hips and Santana's mouth was near my ear.

"You didn't think I'd let you go all night without dancing with me, did you?"

I shivered at the flirtatious tone of her voice as a grin spread through my face and chest. All was forgiven. My plan for making her jealous had worked.

I ground back into her once before turning around, placing my hands on her shoulders and leaning into her thigh. She bit her bottom lip in approval as her eyes scanned my torso and she pressed up into me.

For the next hour, I felt nothing but Santana around and against and beside me, sweaty and sexy and making my body hum. It was the best night I'd had in a long time. After a while, it didn't bother me that we took turns dancing with other people. We were out having fun, and it didn't have to be a serious thing or mean anything. Unless it did mean something. Which I was still hoping it did.

We took several trips to the bar to hydrate myself and further Santana's buzz, but around two in the morning, we were running on fumes. Santana toppled onto me, slurring through her drunkenness, "You ready to go home, babe?"

Sensing she wasn't going to be able to party much longer without falling over, I nodded and helped guide her towards the door. Out on the sidewalk, she teetered a bit on her heels, but then the chill woke her up and she walked a relatively straight line to the car.

As I drove us back to our neighborhood, the energy settled into the quiet and the party vibe that had propped me up withered. My ears were ringing and my sweaty legs were sticking to my skirt and the leather upholstery of the car, squeaking whenever I moved. Santana was calm and happy in the passenger's seat, humming quietly to the radio.

"You get any numbers?" she asked, fighting to keep her eyes open.

I wasn't sure why she was asking. Was she wanting to check that I wasn't serious about anyone else? Compare notes? Compete with me? It felt like a trick question.

But I figured a good way to not play games was to just be honest, so I shook my head and said, "No."

Santana pouted, sticking her lower lip out dramatically. "What happened to that one girl you were dancing with? She was cute."

Sinking into the realization that Santana wasn't actually interested in me, I shrugged. "Not everyone goes to the club to hook up," I said.

Santana grunted a sleepy agreement and looked out the window.

I was so confused. What was her deal? Was she just a flirtatious person and I was having a hard time understanding that, or was she interested in me but only to a point? I decided to play into her game just a little. Maybe if she was jealous of Callie, then I'd have a clue.

"She _was_ cute, though," I said. "I should have asked."

Santana hummed and reached over to pat my knee. "Next time," she said, her words light and sing-song.

Letting out a heavy sigh, I resigned myself to settling for Santana's friendship. That was apparently all I was going to get.

"Next time," I echoed.

I drove us back to our neighborhood and parked across from her apartment. We said a quick goodbye and I walked back to my apartment alone, disappointed, sweaty, and exhausted.

* * *

x

* * *

After diffusing all the tension that had arisen when Santana had asked me back to her place with a nice glass of Sauvignon Blanc at a local wine bar, I was feeling much better. Maybe it hadn't even been the wine that had calmed me down. Maybe it was just sitting with Santana and realizing how easy she was to be around when I wasn't obsessing over her intentions and if she liked me or not.

Because, to my surprise, I found that dating Santana was easier than being her friend. I knew she liked me, I knew why she was hanging around me, and I had a general sense of where we were going. That is, we both hoped that love and sex would manifest in some form or another in the coming weeks and months. It was nice to have everything out in the open.

Over wine, she asked me more about the exhibits at the Exploratorium.

"How do you remember so many little scientific factoids?"

I shrugged. "The human brain is still a big mystery to me."

"You could have explained every single exhibit in that huge museum to me better than anyone who works there."

I blushed. "That's not true. I had to read the signs for some of them."

"Still," Santana said. "Your understanding went above and beyond the signs. I was impressed."

I grew warmer still. "I guess I'm just a nerd."

Santana kept her gaze fixed on me. "Keep being a nerd," she said. "It totally works for you."

I hoped I wasn't turning too red as I desperately searched for something to change the subject to. Remembering the jar of taffy she'd given me, I asked about her recent trip to Santa Cruz and was relieved when she let the conversation flow in that direction.

After sitting in the wine bar for at least an hour - I don't know how long we were there because I didn't have my watch and all I could look at was Santana - she drove me home. She pulled up in front of my apartment and my nerves spiked again. How was this supposed to go? Were we supposed to kiss? Who kissed who? Did we just go for it, or did we talk about it, or was there some secret lesbian signal that I didn't know to look for? I worked myself up, but Santana stayed steady, smiling at me from her place in the driver's seat, hands relaxed at the bottom of the steering wheel.

"Goodnight, Brittany," she said, sounding confident and calm.

Her steadiness soothed me a bit, but I was still anxious. Did I just get out of the car? Lean over and hug her? Kiss her on the cheek? I didn't know what to do.

Luckily at the last second I remembered my manners and said, "Thank you for taking me out tonight."

She gave a gracious nod. "Thank you for agreeing to go."

I hovered halfway out of my seat with my hand on the door. Was that it? Were we just going to say goodnight? I didn't want to leave on such an ambiguous note. So I did something brave.

"Do you want to, like, go out again sometime?" I asked. I just had to know how she felt.

"Absolutely," Santana said, grinning. "How about dinner Wednesday night?"

Her smooth confidence relaxed me. I was relieved I hadn't messed up the date so much that she didn't want to see me again.

"Yeah," I said. "Dinner is good."

"Do you want to pick a place?"

Feeling like I wouldn't pick anywhere good enough for Santana's refined palate, I shook my head. "You can pick."

"Okay."

There was another stiff moment of silence before I had to break it by cracking the door open. I tried not to let my gaze snag on her lipstick-moist lips. I thought about the video she'd made of the lipsticks flirting and wondered why she wasn't trying to kiss me. But maybe it was some lesbian rule I didn't know.

"I had a good time," I said, wanting to assure her I felt good about our date, despite this awkward dropoff interaction. "Thank you." I opened the door wider and slid my leg out.

"Me too," Santana said. "I'll talk to you before Wednesday."

"Okay. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

And that was that. I closed the door, glancing behind me to wave as I fished out my keys and walked up the steps to my gate. She waited as I unlocked it, and her presence behind me feeling like a million important eyes boring into my back as I swung open the gate and unlocked the door before ascending the stairs to my apartment. Halfway up the stairs, I heard her car motor pull away and felt sad that the night had ended so soon. What time was it, anyway? I glanced at my naked wrist and felt dumb for the fiftieth time since taking my watch off. I pulled out my phone and saw it was almost one. Shit. Time had flown by, pulling me along with it.

I unlocked my apartment door quietly, hoping to dodge any taunts from Justine. But I discovered her keys weren't on the table by the door. She must have been out with Avery or some friends. Dropping my purse by the coffee table, I tumbled backwards into the sofa, seeing dust particles rocket into the air, feeling pillowed by the familiar scent of home while at the same time feeling a part of me that was new and sparkling because of my date with Santana.

I'd gone on a date with a girl, and it had been wonderful. So wonderful that I had asked her to go out again. Holy crap, had I really done that? I had! I'd asked her to go out again, and she'd said she would love to.

Santana and I were going out again.

And we did. She took me to a delicious Mediterranean restaurant in the Castro and we shared a platter of hummus, olives, pomegranate chicken, and spanakopita. Later we had a glass of wine at a wine bar and shared a slice of tiramisu. By the end of the evening, I was stuffed with all things delicious, including Santana's attention.

When she dropped me off at my door again, I suddenly didn't feel so full. Not in my chest at least. I was hungry for something, and as I saw her lips spread in a serene smile, I knew what it was. My stomach was suddenly empty enough to house butterflies because I realized I wanted Santana to kiss me.

I really, really wanted Santana to kiss me.

My heart sped up as she leaned toward me, extending her arm to my back.

But then her head moved past me as she wrapped both arms awkwardly around me in a car hug.

Just a hug.

I lifted my arms as best I could and held her there, hoping she would turn it into more than a hug. I inhaled her scent as I did: flowers and fresh cotton and hairspray and lipstick. Lipstick, lipstick, lipstick... Would she blend it with mine?

She pulled back and I let one last, strong hope beat through my chest. But she pulled all the way back into her seat.

"Can I take you out again this weekend?" she asked.

Still breathless from my dashed hopes of kissing her, I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. A foolish, flickering thought passed through my mind, telling me I should kiss _her_. But I didn't have the guts.

Santana smiled. "Have a good night, Brittany," she murmured.

I mustered a smile and got out of the car, fumbling less with my keys this time. But I couldn't understand why Santana hadn't kissed me.

At the end of our third date, Santana pulled up in front of my apartment and kept the engine idling. She knew better than to invite me back to her place for a drink. I loved that she wasn't pushing the issue. And yet there was something longing in her face that I wanted her to voice, because I was pretty sure it was the same thing I was feeling.

Which is why I was so relieved when she looked at me with a confident yet somehow bashful smile as she asked, "May I kiss you goodnight?"

The way she asked, with such respect, hope, and gentleness, made me melt into my seat.

"Yeah," I said, feeling my body flush with excitement and the compliment that was her adoration and respect.

"Okay," she said, smile widening as she leaned halfway forward over the armrest, then paused to extend her hand up to my face.

She cupped my cheek, looking into my eyes, a look of reverence that made her smile fade but her eyes sparkle even more. Then she leaned forward more, closing her eyes as her lips met mine.

I exhaled at the touch, and relief spread through me. As we pressed closer together, she hummed as though she'd been thinking of kissing me all night and now she could go home happy. That happiness flooded through me and I found my lips moving with hers. It had been years since I'd kissed a girl, and I had forgotten how soft their lips were, how delicate and coordinated their movements could be with mine.

Her nose nudged against my cheek and she threaded her hand over my ear into my hair, holding me there without force or expectation. She just held me, and I felt all the city lights dance along my skin, lighting up inside me. It was gentle and warm and just the right amount of wet. It was the best first kiss I'd ever had.

After a few moments, just as I was preparing to slip my tongue along her lower lip, she pulled away, but kept her hand in my hair. I opened my eyes and noticed hers seemed darker and more alive.

"Thank you," she breathed. "I really wanted to do that."

The city lights were still abuzz as I said, "Me too."

I suddenly found all the confidence I had been lacking before as I reached up into her hair and pulled her back to my mouth. She put up no resistance, closing her eyes again as our lips joined together. This time I slipped my tongue out quickly, and I felt a tiny flinch of surprise from her in response. The corner of her mouth twitched before she responded by slipping her tongue out to tease mine. It was so soft and slippery. I just wanted to feel it against my lips and my own tongue until I had learned her mouth like I knew her face.

Our kisses became more heated as I dared further into her mouth, always knowing when to stop for breath. I found myself letting out tiny hums of gratitude as we made out. I was so, so glad to be kissing her. She was an amazing kisser. I just wanted to keep kissing her the whole night.

But then her hand dropped down to my waist and curled around my body under my jacket. It reminded me of Vance and his subtle sense of entitlement to my body, his attitude that I was disposable.

Logically I knew Santana was nothing like Vance. I knew that if I gave the slightest signal of distress or discomfort, she would stop. But that didn't stop the anxiety that crept up at the tightening of her hand around my side. That flicker of fear made me pop my lips off hers and sigh, signaling I was done kissing for now.

She got the message and nuzzled my cheek before murmuring, "Have a good night, Britt."

She had understood without me having to say anything, and she'd called me _Britt_ for the first time. I liked the way it sounded in her breathless mouth.

"You too," I whispered, kissing her on the cheek in response. "Sweet dreams."

She hummed as she pulled away, sighing as she said, "How could I not, after kissing you?"

The lights went crazy in my belly and I blushed. I looked at her, seeing her own lipstick smeared on her face and giggled.

"You have some..." I said, making little circles in front of my mouth to tell her there was lipstick all over her face.

She giggled and flipped down her visor, doing her best to wipe the biggest smudges off with a tissue from her center console. Then she took another tissue and leaned over to wipe a smudge off my face.

"Can I take you out again this week?" she asked when she was done.

I gave a happy bob of my head, and her smile widened.

And then I thought about how she had been so generous and patient with my previous uncertainty and felt the need to return all her adoration.

"Actually, no," I said, "I want to take _you_ out."

She grew almost bashful at that. "I'd love that."

I darted across the arm rest one more time to peck her on the cheek. "Goodnight," I chirped, knowing if I stayed any longer I would never leave and we'd make out until she got a ticket for double parking or ran out of gas.

"Goodnight," she echoed.

I opened the passenger door and hopped down from my seat, throwing one last giddy smile over my shoulder as I walked up the steps to my apartment.

I once thought that a handsome man who was also a good kisser would be my undoing. But as I floated up to my apartment that night, I was certain I was wrong.

* * *

x

* * *

I waited for Santana outside the aquarium, just like we'd agreed. It was a beautiful day, and I was confident we'd find the Bush Man and try to get an interview. Santana had drafted a list of questions, but I couldn't help but feel she was hopelessly optimistic. We didn't know if he'd talk to us, let alone make sense. After all, he hid behind a shrub and scared tourists for a living. Some might have called him an entrepreneur, but many people just thought he was crazy, if not entertaining. I liked to think he was all three.

Santana was twenty minutes late, which I was realizing was just her style. She was always embarrassed and apologetic about it, but late nonetheless. She looked cute today, with a sundress and cardigan pulled over it. She looked young. In fact, some days I had a hard time believing she was twenty-five. She could have passed for eighteen easily. If she didn't have such nice tits, I would have wagered that she'd never gone to a bar in her life where she hadn't been carded.

The image of her in a bar to begin with was a bit funny. She'd be so nervous, no doubt clinging to her friends or boyfriend until she'd had enough alcohol to loosen up and ease away from them. Poor girl. I wished I could bestow some of the stripper confidence that oozed out of Jez onto her. We had enough. Well, at least in most ways we did. It hadn't escaped me that many of the girls at work had a subtle undercurrent of insecurity. Whether that was a stripper thing or a girl thing, I wasn't sure. Maybe I just noticed it more in the strippers because it was in stark contrast to our bare-it-all surface-level bravery. At least Santana didn't cover anything up. Not anything I could detect, at least; her insecurities were numerous and obvious. I liked that about her. It didn't take much to understand her.

Santana gave me a nervous smile as she approached, not knowing how to greet me other than with an awkward wave of her hand. I would have gone in for a hug if I didn't think that would spook her. I complimented her dress and suggested we walk North, toward all the tourists, and she agreed.

We had walked almost the whole length of the Piers without luck. She was starting to get discouraged, saying, "Well, we tried. Maybe I'm not supposed to be focusing on this anyway. I have classes and stuff to worry about..." I clucked my tongue and told her that she needed to build up her tolerance to disappointment, not to mention cultivate her sense of adventure, if she wanted to be a journalist. She took a nervous breath and nodded, walking another block without making eye contact. I kept looking at her, wondering if I'd hurt her feelings by calling out her shyness. But I couldn't read her face at the moment. She was oddly blank. I kept looking though because she was really easy to look at.

Suddenly a crazed, loud, homeless man darted out in front of me and yelled, rattling what I had seen out of the corner of my eye as a potted plant. It took me by such surprise, I shrieked and lept back, holding my hands up to prevent an attack.

Then I realized people around me were laughing and Santana, surprisingly enough, was doubled over laughing. "He got you so good!" she chortled, putting her hand on my shoulder.

I walked away a few yards, angry about being startled and wanted to slap everyone who had laughed. But I supposed that I deserved it. I'd gone looking for something and hadn't noticed when it was right in front of me because I'd been so busy staring at Santana. She had seen it coming, hadn't she? Tricky little minx.

Santana recovered from her laughing fit and her face fell, realizing I had been more scared than she thought. My shoulders were still hunched up and my heart was pounding. She suddenly looked appropriately sheepish and concerned as she lowered her voice and said, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have laughed. But you walked right into that."

I put my hand to my face, hoping that I wasn't going from white to red. I was stunned at how scared I'd been and how calm and concerned Santana was now.

"It's okay," I mumbled. "I need to watch where I'm going."

She giggled and shrugged. "Shall we ask for an interview?" she asked, pointing back to where the Bush Man was crouching a few yards away.

I nodded and followed her lead back to the Bush Man, who was positioned behind his shrub again.

"Excuse me," Santana said, her voice too quiet to be heard.

Without me telling her she needed to, she cleared her throat and tried again. "Excuse me!"

The man turned around, looking her up and down with a raised eyebrow. I realized he was looking to see if she was holding out money, since he was frequently tipped by tourists for his antics. Santana didn't have any money in her hands, so he turned forward, ignoring her.

"I was wondering if I could interview you?" Santana asked, voice braced with bravery.

"Seventy fie," the Bush Man said.

"What?"

"Seventy fie dollah," he said.

"Seventy five dollars?"

"You want an interview, you gots to give me seventy fie dollah."

"Oh... Okay," Santana said, dejected. "Thanks anyway."

She was so polite, so ready to take no for an answer, I was disappointed, not to mention shocked at the old man's ludicrous request. Seventy-five dollars for an interview? No way.

I stepped in. "Seventy-five dollars is a bit steep for an interview," I said, frowning down at him.

"Thas how much it cost," he said, not looking at us. "I been doin this for twenty years, ain't got time to answer your fool questions when I could be making money. No go on so I can work," he said, gruff as he held the drying branch in front of where he crouched on an upside down bucket.

I sighed. Clearly this man was not interested in being interviewed.

I put my hand on Santana's arm, apologizing for his rudeness and our disappointment. She shrugged as we turned away.

"Oh well," she sighed. "Maybe I'm supposed to be focusing on other things."

"Like what?" I asked. "You have to have more going on in your life than just school. Trust me, I just graduated," I said.

Santana nodded, looking down at the pavement blotched black with gum and sticky soda stains. "I have other stuff..." she said hesitantly.

"Like what?"

Santana shrugged. "I have Isaiah..."

"That's not enough," I said. "A boyfriend isn't the same as a hobby."

"I know..." Santana said, sounding ashamed. "I mean... I play with my cat sometimes when I get stressed out," she shrugged, as though it was all she could think of that would prove she wasn't totally hopeless.

"You have a cat?" I asked, adoring the image of Santana snuggling up to a cat when she was overwhelmed or lonely.

"Yeah," she said, smiling at the ground as she thought of her furry companion. "Schrodinger. He's three. Isaiah gave him to me as a kitten."

"That's sweet," I said genuinely. A cat seemed like an appropriate and thoughtful gift for someone like Santana. Shy people need companionship that doesn't judge or pester. She was definitely a cat person. "I love cats."

"You'll love Schro then," she said, smiling. "He's a sweetie. He snuggles up on _everyone_."

"How am I supposed to feel special if he snuggles up on _everyone_?" I asked, playing into the possibility that she was going to introduce me to her cat.

At that Santana stopped on the sidewalk, looking at me with sparkling eyes. "How do people you date know they're special if you let customers see you naked all the time?"

If she had phrased it differently or put any hint of judgement into the question, I would have been offended. She was defending a _cat_, after all. But the playful smile on her lips and the way her head was tilted told me she was genuinely curious about my answer, though she knew she'd made a fair point. Obviously me taking off my clothes for a lover was different than taking them off for a customer. To that point, she was saying that her cat wasn't undiscerning.

I was astonished at how quickly Santana had adapted her thinking to be nonjudgmental and accepting about my job. She'd asked a question that - frankly - I didn't know the answer to. That flummoxed me.

"I guess - I mean... it's about the intention?" My inflection conveyed too much uncertainty for my liking. But the truth was I _was_ uncertain, not only because I hadn't dated much since I started stripping, but because I hadn't given the matter much thought. Naked was naked. "I mean, at work I do it for money. With people I date, I do it because, I dunno... because I care and want to be close to them?"

Santana's smile was victorious as she nodded and started walking again. "Well, you and Schro have that in common then. He rubs up on new people hoping they'll give him treats, which are kind of like money to him. But with me, it's just cuz I'm his mom and he loves me. He knows he doesn't get treats, just snuggles and ear scratches."

I nodded and we walked quietly for a minute as I remained in awe of the depth of Santana's understanding of the psychology of my job. I began to wonder how the rest of her could adapt to new ideas and understand them on a fundamental level. If she were forced to act braver for a week, would she become outgoing? Forced to hustle for lap dances, could she become a resident house girl? I wondered if I were as adaptable as she was. I somehow doubted I was. A true Midwestern girl, I was stubborn about who I was and what I believed. But not Santana. Despite her Texas upbringing, she was soft and malleable like the California girls I knew. And I like that about her.

"Want to get frozen yogurt?" she asked, pointing to a shop ahead.

Taking any opportunity to study her further, I nodded and followed her into the shop.

After we got frozen yogurt, we strolled along the Piers, trying not to get too frustrated with the tourists. We looked into the shops and commented on cute souvenirs. We lingered in front of Ripley's, avoiding the people trying to get us to buy tickets. When we returned to the front of the aquarium, I wasn't sure what to do or say. I liked spending time with her, but we didn't have an excuse to keep hanging out, since our interview hopes had been dashed, at least for our intended target.

"Who's next on the interview list?" I asked.

"You tell me," Santana said. "You've lived here longer than me. "

I may have lived in San Francisco for three years, but I was far from a native. "I have a feeling," I said, hedging my way into a compliment, "that your instincts are better than mine on that front. But I'd love to tag along."

Santana wriggled through a sheepish giggle at my compliment. "Well, I don't know about that," she said. "But I'd love you to come with me. I was thinking of going to Ben and Jerry's in the Haight tomorrow and talking to one of the employees there. It's kind of near my house."

"Sounds like a plan," I said, knowing I didn't have to work until the evening.

"Afterwards maybe you can meet Schrodinger," she offered. "I feel bad leaving him alone all the time. Especially on weekends when I'm with Isaiah."

I nodded, not knowing how to respond to Santana's guilt about her cat. From what I knew about cats, they didn't care too much about extended periods of being alone, provided they were fed and petted on occasion. But maybe Schrodinger was different.

"Okay," I said, eager to get a glimpse into Santana's world. "I'll meet you there at..."

"Three," Santana said.

"Three," I agreed.

And with that I headed home, happy to have engaged in a painless, thought-provoking afternoon with my new friend.

The next afternoon, Santana and I met at Ben & Jerry's and she set up an interview with one of the employees there. I was proud of how she asked for what she wanted, seeming to brace herself against the possibility of a rejection, not wanting to be deterred or disheartened. I just watched, and seeing her forced confidence gave me more faith in her journalism skills. Not that I was particularly invested in her studies, but I wanted my new friend to have good things, and if a career in journalism was something she desired, I wanted her to have it.

Afterwards, we went to her house. Schrodinger met us at the door and instantly circled Santana's legs, meowing and practically head-butting her as he rubbed against her ankles with serpentine grace. She bent down and scratched between his ears, speaking in light baby-talk as she said, _It's okay, baby, mama's home now._

I settled down on Santana's chair - it was the only place to sit besides the bed, which was hastily made - and Schrodinger sauntered up to me. As Santana predicted, he purred as he pressed his side into my leg, adorning me with cat hair in hopes of getting a treat. Wanting to win his favor, I asked Santana where the treats were and she pointed to a little jar on her desk. I fed him a few little pieces out of my palm, and he immediately settled on the floor beside me, leaning against my foot as he vibrated.

"Oh, he _likes_ you," Santana said with playful smile. "He doesn't do the foot lean and purr for just anyone."

I looked down at her sweet little cat and scratched his ears, at which he arched them back, squinted, and purred louder. "Is that true, Schrodinger, or are you just using your best moves? Because I know a few things about rubbing up on people in my birthday suit and purring to get what I want."

Santana giggled and settled onto her bed. Then, as soon as she was comfortable, she perked up. "Oh, I keep meaning to show you!" she said. "The article." She lept off the bed and leaned over me to open her laptop. As she did, I smelled a subtle jasmine perfume that made me inhale deeply but hopefully not audibly. She smelled really good. Way better than the synthetic fruit sprays all the girls at Jez overspritzed, or the piercing citrus of Pine Sol that coated everything beyond the dressing rooms. She smelled relaxed and summery and warm. I could have taken a nap in the way she smelled.

Santana clicked through a few folders until she found the document she wanted me to read.

"Here you go," she said, giving me a strained, nervous expression that pulled her lips back over her teeth. "I hope it's okay."

I felt her butterflies as she settled back on the bed to watch me read. I turned toward the screen and read.

_Bare Opinion: Sex, Clothing, Power, and Money_

_Violet, an alias, is charming, humorous, and well-educated. Fresh-faced and perky, she doesn't look a day over twenty-one. At twenty-five, she's already self-employed and an independent contractor with an established San Francisco business. She's paid off all her student loans from both her undergraduate and Master's degree and has plans to buy her first car in the coming months. She's fit, funny, and has good friends._

_She's also a stripper and prostitute, and wouldn't have it any other way._

Encouraged by Santana's introduction, I read on.

_Violet sits down with me and orders a hot chocolate, giggling that coffee makes her too jumpy. She offers to buy my drink and chats about the menu and the weather. She's a pleasant, sociable girl, so it's easy to see why her customers would be loyal to her._

_ Though she seems an anomaly, Violet insists that her coworkers, whom she refers to as "sisters," are just like her. That is, they are normal, smart, hardworking people with feelings who work in a misunderstood and stigmatized industry. Her only complaints fall under "labor issues," such as shifts being difficult to swap and not receiving the medical and financial benefits of a salaried position. Barring those things, Violet is content with her career. She even volunteers to show me why during a tour of her workplace..._

As I read on, I became more and more fond of Santana. The article was written with journalistic propriety, addressing the fact that not all strippers had my experience and that some girls in the industry were exploited, but it was overall positive and open-minded. Since it had been assigned as an opinion piece, it was not without a touch of Santana's personal experience of our interview and tour and her thought process. While there were only hints of her thinking having changed dramatically, they were there nonetheless, candid and honest. I finished reading and looked up at her with a grin. Every doubt I'd had about doing the interview was eased. She had written something beautiful and provocative in a way unrelated to nakedness. Her _words_ were naked, and they moved me like I thought only music could.

"It's perfect," I said. "Couldn't have written it better myself."

She gave me a relieved smile in return.

"Did your professor like it?" I asked, hoping she had received more than my humble praise for her commitment to the topic and presenting it honestly.

Santana gave a hesitant shrug. "She didn't hate it. But I think she was looking for a rant or a condemnation."

I pouted and shrugged back, as if to say, _What can you do?_

Santana shrugged in response. "I'm glad I got that topic though. Pretty sure she gave it to me because she thought I couldn't handle it, but..."

"You showed her, huh?" I said, grinning conspiratorially.

Santana's smile turned impish.

"You should have covered more of the prostitution stuff. That would have made her head _really_ explode."

Santana giggled. "I wasn't sure if you wanted to talk about it. Since there are legal concerns, I didn't want to pry..."

I smiled in appreciation. "Thank you for that. But I'm pretty sure you're not gonna rat me out now that the article is done. Is there anything you want to know?"

"About prostitution?" Santana asked, hesitant.

I nodded.

Santana looked unsure, like I was asking her a trick question. She thought for a moment, then wagered she could take me at my word. Which, of course, she could.

"I mean... You said you only have one client, right?"

"Yeah. We have a standing arrangement and fee schedule. I'm not your typical prostitute because it just kind of happened to me and I went with it. Although maybe that _is _typical, who knows."

Santana wrinkled her brow. "What do you mean?"

I let out a weary chuckle. "I thought we were on a date, and then we went back to his house and had sex and then he tossed a wad of bills at me. So it was kind of like, _Surprise, you're a hooker now!_"

Santana's eyes went wide, as though she were imagining that happening to her and how she'd react. "Did you consider not taking the money?"

"Of _course_," I scoffed. "I was highly offended. But then I realized that I'd just been paid six hundred dollars for something that I'd been willing to do for free, so why not, you know?"

"_Six hundred_?" Santana said, incredulous.

I paused, giving her a sly smile. "I make much more than that now."

Santana's eyes were still wide, but she settled back into the bed. "Shit, maybe _I_ should become a prostitute."

I laughed with her and shook my head. "Honestly, I wouldn't recommend it to most people. The only reason I still do it is because I trust my client and he doesn't gross me out. I have no idea how escorts and call girls do it. They have some secret I don't."

"So it's like, good for you too?" Santana asked, an air of wonder crossing her face, as though it had never occurred to her that prostitutes could enjoy their work.

"I wouldn't go that far, but it's not bad. I don't mind his company so much, and I only have to hang around for an hour."

Santana adjusted her legs beneath her and nodded, chewing on the information I'd given her. "So you wouldn't do it with anyone else?"

I shook my head. "Don't think so. It's just, I dunno, _situational_ prostitution. I exchange consensual sex for money once a week. I don't have to take on all the stigma that comes with it."

Santana raised her eyebrows and looked down at the bed. "Once a week seems like a lot," she muttered. Then her eyes flickered up to me and she said, louder, "To have sex, I mean. Nothing to do with being paid. I think it's cool that you're cool with that. Most girls don't have the guts."

I nodded, wondering what she meant when she'd said having sex once a week sounded like a lot. "You have sex _less_ than once a week?" I asked.

I didn't mean to shame her, though I realized my question sounded accusatory.

Santana shrugged, trying not to let her guilt curl her shoulders. "I mean, if it were up to Isaiah, we'd be doing it every day. But he knows I'm not always in the mood..."

I watched Santana retreat back into her guilt about her crappy sex life. I didn't want her to go back there, so I said, "Have sex when you want and don't when you don't. Everyone's got different ideas of how often they should be doing it. Do what's right for you."

Santana nodded and leaned forward. "I mean, everyone loves an orgasm, right? But most of the time I'd rather take care of myself than go through the whole process and get all sweaty and deal with cleanup..."

"Hey, cleanup is a hassle," I said, raising a hand in solidarity.

Santana nodded, a contemplative look on her face. "I'm getting better about getting what I need though. I know you said you couldn't help me with sex stuff, but what you said the other day about only doing it when I want really stuck with me. Yesterday he really wanted to and I didn't, so we didn't. I got a nice massage from him instead. I think he was trying to loosen me up and get me in the mood, but I just wanted to relax and fall asleep, so I did."

I lifted my hand to give her a high five. "Atta girl," I said.

Santana smiled and sat up straighter to slap her hand with mine. "Do you want something to drink? I have juice and soda and a little bit of vodka."

"I'll have whatever you're having."

With that she rose and walked to her minifridge, taking out a bottle of Sprite and a small bottle of vodka. "So how'd you meet this guy?" she asked, seeming to feel more comfortable asking me personal questions now that she'd revealed something about her own personal life.

"I can't say too much, but it was related to my Master's program."

Santana paused and turned around, eying me. "Was it a professor?" she asked, not masking her criticism and concern.

I shook my head and told a tiny white lie. "No, don't worry. I wouldn't have taken the money if it had been someone who could impact whether or not I graduated. At least I don't think I would have." That part was true. Dr. Turner couldn't have failed me because he had just been a guest lecturer.

Santana's shoulders relaxed and she finished pouring our drinks. "Good. I wouldn't want you to get into anything messy."

I nodded as she handed me my drink. "My client and I have a pretty clear relationship when it comes to separating business and pleasure."

"Well then, Violet," Santana said, perching on the edge of her bed and holding up her glass to clink with mine, "I hope you have a long and healthy career with him, should you so choose."

Encouraged by her support and openness, I grinned wider and tipped my glass into hers. "Brittany," I said, raising my glass to my lips.

Santana frowned as she took her first sip.

"My real name is Brittany," I clarified.

"Oh!" Santana said, beaming. "Right. I forgot you had another name." She shifted her glass into her left hand and extended her right to me. "Nice to meet you, Brittany."


	8. Revelation

**A/N: Hey guys! So I have a bunch of chapters I'm going to fire at you for the next few weeks. Don't get too used to it though, because real life is bound to take over at some point. The muse has just been strong lately.**

**Speaking of strong, thanks to JJ for her superior beta skills.**

**If you haven't checked it out, I created a timeline to help decrease confusion about when events happen in each strand in relation to others. It's linked on my Tumblr, along with my original character faceclaims and other fun extras.**

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**Chapter 8: Revelation**

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So here's what you missed on Dandelion: Bar!Britt and Santana went out to club and Britt was hoping it was kind of a date and Santana got pretty flirty, but by the end of the night they were definitely still just friends. Lab!Britt and Santana said goodnight after two more dates and Britt was really confused about why Santana wasn't trying to kiss her, but after their third date Santana asked if she could kiss Britt good night and it was amazing and Britt was really, really into it as long as Santana didn't get too handsy. Violet and Santana went to interview the San Fran Bush Man, which didn't exactly go as planned, but they had a good time and hung out again with Santana's cat, which helped Britt see how sweet and open-minded Shy!Santana is about Britt's job and the world in general. And that's what you missed!

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Being just friends with Santana felt like driving with my left foot, but I got used to it after a while. As long as I didn't ogle her too much or ask about her love life, we had a great time. I saw her almost every day, and we texted whenever we weren't around each other. Every weekend I would haul my laundry down the hill to the laundromat under her apartment, then text her, and we'd chat or walk down the street for a cupcake or frozen yogurt. Sometimes she'd ask me to proofread an article she was working on.

I still wondered how she felt about me every day, even though for the most part she made it clear she wanted nothing more than friendship. But every once in awhile, I would catch her looking at me longer than friends do, or sneaking a peek at my ass as I bent over to put a DVD in, or flickering her eyes down to my cleavage when I wore low-cut shirts. I was always conscious of what I wore around her, trying to walk that fine line between not-trying-too-hard and looking really hot. Her wandering eyes gave me hope that we could someday be something more.

One evening I was about to open a bottle of Malbec for Santana, Justine, and I to share while we watched _American Graffiti_ when Santana's phone buzzed and she leaned forward to pick it up off the coffee table.

"Shit," she muttered. "I totally forgot."

She examined the phone for a minute before sighing and looking at me with a guilty grimace. "I can't stay," she said.

Heavy with disappointment, I gave her a muted pout.

"I'm sorry. I forgot I had plans tonight. But we can watch tomorrow if you want."

"I work," I said. It felt good to remind her I wasn't available just any time. I had a life and us being _friends_ meant she didn't always come first. Especially when she didn't put me first.

"Oh," she said, slumping a bit. She glanced at her phone and grimaced again. "I really have to meet her," she said, still overwhelmingly apologetic. "But we can watch whenever your next night off is, I promise."

I shrugged, trying not to make her feel worse.

But part of me did want to make her feel bad for ditching me. Especially since I had the sinking suspicion that she was ditching me to go hook up with someone. She wouldn't have been so vague otherwise. Maybe it was one of those girls from the club. I hadn't asked her if she'd gotten any numbers because I didn't want to know.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," she said, covering her face. "I'll make it up to you, I promise," she said, picking up her purse.

There was an awkward silence as she walked over to the door, hoping for a word of forgiveness. I kept my eyes on the intro screen for the American Graffiti DVD and uttered a disinterested goodbye.

I heard the door close behind me and let out what I thought was an undetectable sigh.

Justine, who had been observing our interaction from the armchair, rocked out of her seat and picked up the bottle of wine. She stooped over the coffee table and poured two very generous glasses, handing one to me.

"_So_," she said, an air of smug casualness weaving through her words. "How is being _friends_ with her working out for you?"

I sighed again, letting my frustration seethe through me. "Fine," I muttered.

"Yeah, you seem totally fine," Justine said, taking a sip. "Finest I've ever seen you. Finer than that time your bus pass was stolen. Finer than that time you waited in line for half an hour to try something on at H&M and when you got to the front the attendant said the store was closed and you couldn't-"

"Shut up," I muttered. I took a long, thirsty sip of my wine and hugged my free arm to my stomach as I slouched deeper into the couch.

Justine softened. "I'm just saying it doesn't seem like it's working for you."

"It's fine," I assured her. "I'm just a little pissed because I think she's meeting up with this girl she met at the club the other night. Which was like, totally fine, but she kinda ditched me first thing when we got there so I'm a little bitter."

Justine studied me for a moment before asking, "Was she hot?"

I shrugged, trying to pretend I didn't care. I felt my shoulders rise closer to my ears. The other girl had been really hot. At the moment, I felt like chopped liver in comparison.

Justine dropped any semblance of challenge or mockery. "Oh, Britt," she said softly. "I'm sorry." She studied me for a minute longer as I tried to inhale the contents of my wine glass. "Wow, you _really_ like her," she remarked. "I've never seen you like this."

"I don't want to talk about it," I said, not trusting myself to hold back from talking about how much I adored Santana and wished she would be with me. Lovesickness looks good on no one.

Justine nodded in understanding, and I could see out of the corner of my eye that her expression was concerned.

"Do you still want to watch the movie?" she asked, speaking as though I were sick or injured.

I shrugged, taking another big sip of wine. "Might as well."

She nodded and reached for the remote, starting the movie.

Not thirty seconds later, she got up from her chair and came over to the couch, snuggling up to me aggressively as she pulled a blanket over us.

"If I were into girls, you'd be at the top of my list," she said. "You're a ten."

I appreciated her effort to comfort me, so I let out a lackluster laugh and took another sip of my wine.

Twenty minutes into the movie, my phone buzzed on the coffee table. Figuring it must be Santana, I ignored it. I didn't want to deal with my feelings about her right now. Not when she'd ditched me for some more attractive ass. My phone buzzed a few more times throughout the movie, but I didn't pick it up. Justine said nothing, just patting me on the knee a few times and adjusting her head on my arm.

When the movie was over, I picked up my phone and glanced at my messages. There were more than I thought: five messages from Santana, all sent in the last two hours.

_Hey, so sorry about that. I forgot I was supposed to pick my cousin up at the airport tonight._

_You totally could have come, I'm such a spaz._

_Britt?_

_Are you mad at me?_

_I'm really sorry..._

As I read the text messages, relief coursed through me. She hadn't ditched me to go hook up with someone. She's just driven to the airport. I sent a quick, _Hey, don't worry about it :)_ text back and got ready for bed, lulled to sleep with the reassurance that she wasn't getting laid by someone else.

Around one in the morning, I was in the middle of a good dream when my phone buzzed on the desk by my head. Startled, I grabbed it and squinted at the screen. It was Santana. She must have accidently called me. I slid the call open, half prepared to be met with scuffling and scratching and distant voices. But on the other end of the line, it was quiet.

"Hello?"

It was quiet for five long seconds and I was about say _hello_ again when I heard a sniffle. My heart picked up. Was she crying? Had she called me _crying_?

"Hi," she said, soft and squeaky.

She was crying.

"_Hi_," I cooed, wanting to be gentle with her. Even though I was frustrated with her, I never liked to hear people cry.

"Can you come-" she hiccuped. "Can you - Do you want to hang out?"

Sensing she was asking for help, I said, "Of course." I slid my legs off the bed and stepped into shoes, pulling on a sweatshirt.

When I got to Santana's apartment and called her to let her know I was downstairs, she seemed to have zipped up into her guarded, polished self again. She wasn't crying anymore. It was as if my presence had dried her eyes. I wished we could get naked together just to feel like she was being real again. Because, if anything, Santana was real when she was naked. She was lustful and passionate and hungry and beautiful and flawed.

I realized as soon as she walked up the stairs ahead of me that she'd been drinking. She steadied herself against the wall and her blinks were longer than usual. I was used to seeing her drunk, but never when I hadn't been drinking too. I'd finished my glass of wine hours ago and could no longer feel the effects.

"You okay?" I asked as we reached her door and her shoulder bumped into the jamb.

"Yeah," she assured me. "I just... came back from... a thing." She opened the door and walked inside, stepping over a pile of clothes.

I looked around her apartment and saw a bottle of vodka on the counter. I had no problem calling her out on her bullshit.

"Was 'the thing' drinking alone in your room?" I asked, pointing to the bottle.

"_No_," she growled, reaching for the bottle and slinging it under the sink. "I was... I was using that to clean earlier."

I gave her a dubious expression. "Cleaning with vodka?"

She looked around the room, seeming confused before her face twisted with sadness. "I just really miss my cat!" she said, starting to whimper.

She was really, really drunk. The drunkest I'd ever seen her. But she could stand up and was marginally intelligible, so she had that going for her.

"You have a cat?" I asked, confused. Was she talking about her childhood cat that still lived with her parents?

"No!" she blubbered. "He _died_! He got really sick last year and I- tonight I was looking through stuff and found one of his toys..."

At that Santana started heaving and sobbing and I rushed over to her, wrapping her up.

"It's okay," I hushed. "I still cry when I think about my childhood cat sometimes."

Santana pushed away from me, stumbling over to her desk. She rifled through some papers, not finding what she was looking for. Then she looked up, walked over to me, speedy and determined, and cupped my face.

Before I knew it, her lips her on mine and she was trying to drink me in. She was humming into my mouth, hungry, trying to get closer by holding my head firm in her sloppy hands.

As soon as I could, I pushed away, eyebrows arched in surprise and objection. Everything about her felt off-kilter and unplanned. That worried me. I didn't want to become part of her chaos. "I thought we were just friends," I said.

"No," she mumbled, tipping forward to follow me as I backed away. "No..."

"We're not friends?" I asked, confused by her sudden urge to kiss me. Not that I hadn't had that urge every time I'd seen her. I just had no idea what was going through her loosened mind. She probably didn't either.

"Just- you're _so_ beautiful," she said, pleading as she placed another forceful kiss on my mouth.

Her compliment slowed my reflexes, allowing her to kiss me for a few seconds. When I took another small step backward, trying not to jerk away too fast, she whimpered.

"Let me kiss you... You're so beautiful," she slurred.

"I think we should talk about this when you're sober, " I said, prying her hands off my head and clasping them in front of her heart.

"No," Santana whined, pouting. "I don't like talking, I like kissing."

She was so sad and flustered, I gave a little. "Okay, then let's _kiss_ when you're sober."

At that, Santana's face twisted up and her eyes started to water. She turned away and folded her arms under her chest as she started shivering. "_Why don't you like me_?" she squeaked. "Why doesn't _anybody_ like me?"

She was so sad and chaotic, I felt bad for her. She wanted to connect with someone and the only way she knew how to do that was through sex or drinking or both.

I took a step toward her. "I _do_ like you," I said, putting my hand on her shoulder. "And I think you're beautiful too."

"No," Santana whimpered. "You don't."

"I do," I assured her. "You're the most beautiful girl I know."

I paused and my heart raced, waiting for her to push me away or kick me out of her apartment.

But she did nothing, so I added, "I'm just confused."

At that, Santana's shoulders slumped and she turned back to me, keeping her eyes on the ground. "Me too," she sniffled. Then she looked up at me with a tearful, guilty expression. "And drunk." A tiny smile wavered over her face before it fell back into sadness.

"I know," I said. "You're not good at pretending to be sober."

She gave a guilty nod of admission and folded her arms tighter. I didn't want her to feel so alone. Given that she was drunk and had an open bottle of vodka, I didn't want her to be physically alone either.

"Did something happen tonight?" I asked.

Santana shook her head and looked away, her face still heavy and sad.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

Santana gave a limp shrug. "Being around my cousin stresses me out. She makes me feel bad."

Relieved that was all that was going on, I stepped toward Santana and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Since we're both confused and you're drunk and I'm sober, how about we watch a movie?" I suggested. "Just watching though. No hanky-panky."

Santana's lip quivered and she looked up at me as though she didn't trust that I would really stay and just watch a movie with her while she was drunk. But she gave a timid nod. She unfolded her arms to tuck her hair behind her ears.

"Yeah?" I asked.

She kept nodding and I felt relief spread through my body. This way we could both get what we needed. She needed to feel close to someone and to stay safe while she was drunk and upset, and I needed to make sure she was okay.

"Can we cuddle?" she asked, so quietly I almost didn't hear.

"I would love to cuddle," I murmured, tilting my head in adoration and sympathy.

She sniffled for a moment longer before giving me a watery, relieved smile.

A few minutes later, I had convinced her to eat some toast with peanut butter and drink two glasses of water before putting on her pajamas and brushing her teeth. I borrowed a toothbrush and some sweats, wiping off my makeup as she sloppily took out her contacts. I was worried she'd poke her eye out, but she managed, though not without knocking over a bottle of contact solution in the process.

As we nestled into her bed, her body curved into mine and her tired sadness seeped into the pillow by my head. We found some recent episodes of _Modern Family_ and watched until I heard her breathing slow, soft and warm like an exhausted kitten. Then I closed her laptop and rolled onto my side, kissing her on the forehead before tucking myself into my side of the bed. I had just turned out the light when she mumbled, muddled against the pillow, "'Night, Britt."

Surprised but comforted by her awareness of me, I said, "'Night, Santana."

And as I settled my head into her pillow, I realized it was the first time I had ever intentionally spent the night at her place.

When I awoke in the morning, Santana was already up. She had brushed her hair and her teeth and was sitting quietly propped up on her side of the bed scrolling through her phone. She looked peaceful without any makeup in the morning light. I wondered if she would kick me out like she had the first time I'd spent the night. But then I reasoned that she wouldn't be lying next to me if she was uncomfortable. I watched the reflections in her glasses for a moment before I moved my arm to her elbow, letting her know I was awake.

"Morning," I said.

"Hey," she said, soft and low, looking down at me.

"How do you feel?"

"Good, all things considered," she said, nodding. After a moment she set her phone on the nightstand, sliding down the pillows and onto her side so her face was level with mine. "Thanks for coming over last night."

I bit my lip and nodded, remembering how good it had felt to be in her arms, even if she had been drunk and upset. It was the closest I'd ever felt to her.

"Sorry I was such a mess. I won't be drinking alone again any time soon," she said, rolling her eyes at herself.

"Good," I said, looking deep into her eyes, trying to tell her that she worried me.

She mirrored my serious expression for a moment before taking a deep breath. She let it out slowly, searching me. Our faces were just inches apart, and I could smell fading toothpaste on the warmth of her breath.

"I'm sorry about what I did."

I didn't know what she meant with her apology. Was she apologizing for kissing me? For drinking alone?

It was quiet for a minute before she said, "But I meant everything I said."

My heart raced as she raised her hand and cupped behind my ear as she said, "And I'm not sorry about this."

Then she lifted her head and everything sped up as she brought our lips together.

I felt my whole body exhale with that kiss. My feet slid through the sheets as our lips slipped together. It was slow and warm. I would have loved nothing more than to sink into it like a hot bath at the end of a long day.

But I couldn't keep kissing her not knowing what it meant. I couldn't kiss her and just be her friend. She knew that. I didn't want to be just another girl to her.

I remembered my conversation with Dave and how he'd said that I had to ask for what I wanted if I had any chance of being something other than a number. So though it made me nervous, I broke the kiss.

"I don't want to be another notch on your bedpost," I mumbled.

Santana cupped my face and stared deep into me as she whispered, "You're not."

I looked up at her, wishing with my whole body that she was telling the truth. She held my gaze for another moment before echoing, "You're not, Britt."

And with that, she kissed me again, hungrily.

Grinning like a fool, I curled forward into her as everything inside me accelerated, elated that she still wanted to kiss me in the clear light of day and have it mean something. When her tongue peeked out to brush my lips, I pulled back, mumbling, "Haven't brushed my teeth..." to which she responded by pulling my head back in and whispering, "I don't care, Britt..." before sealing our lips back together with more urgency.

Even though in some ways I thought it was gross, the fact that she would rather deal with my morning breath than wait one minute for me to brush my teeth felt refreshingly intimate and urgent, as though that minute would be torturous after so many weeks without kissing me. Had she not been so sure of that kiss, I would have gotten self-conscious about the way my mouth tasted. But the way her body was responding to me, curling forward and beginning to map my back and arms and stomach with her palm, told me that the taste of my mouth was far from revolting.

Her ease was infectious, and my clothes seemed to melt to the bottom of the bed with hers until it was just our limbs draping each other, feeling each other, igniting each other. She was so sensual and electric, I had to close my eyes so I wasn't overwhelmed. She took her usual position on top of me and rocked us together, grunting and gasping with animal intensity. I loved her voraciousness; perhaps that had been why I was so remiss to be just her friend. Being her friend felt watered-down after I had experienced the power of her lust. I basked in it, thrilled that she had broken through whatever had prevented her from doing this for the last few weeks. And how had she known morning sex was my favorite?

She quickly worked me up until I was panting and gasping in syncopation with her, teetering on the brink of release. She rocked into me harder, determined to push me to the finish, sweating and groaning as though she were as close as I was. As I arched and moaned my release, she kissed me, absorbing and elevating my pleasure, never letting up until I forcefully stilled her. She quieted her body, but her lips on my face were still urgent and attentive, as though she were making up for all the kisses we had denied ourselves in the past weeks. She kissed me until I settled and slipped my hand between us, drinking in the smile that graced her face as I started working her up. In no time at all, she was arching and moaning above me, cursing and wincing and at last releasing.

Afterwards, Santana lay there, relaxed and unguarded for a few minutes before she said anything. I was relieved she didn't make up an excuse to leave or kick me out. It was the final reassurance I needed that things were finally going the way I wanted them to. I didn't want to go back to spooning without the fork.

"You like working in a bar?" she asked, as though she had been contemplating my life and had been struck by something that never occurred to her.

I worked in a bar. Which, logically, she knew. But she didn't know much about my job. Mostly we talked about other things. I couldn't figure out what exactly. Our conversations weren't boring. Not in the least. But they all seemed to blend together, no doubt because of the volume of alcohol we usually indulged in when we were together.

"I do," I said.

"And the gay bar is fun?"

"It's okay," I said, shrugging. "The boys know how to party and usually tip pretty well. Although I don't think I make as much as the male bartenders."

Santana bit her lip and studied a piece of the ceiling. "Do you think you'll bartend forever?" she asked.

It was a ludicrous question. No one ever intends to bartend forever, except maybe that guy on _Cheers_, who was the owner anyway.

I shook my head. "No, but I like it for now. I get to see every day how gay people create communities that are so tight-knit and special. It's not like any other minority group. It's a shame girls don't have any places in the city."

Santana nodded and mumbled, "Except for the Lex, yeah."

I'd been to Lexington Club a few times, dragging Justine along simply because I wanted to see what it was like and because I didn't know where to go to meet girls. But the tiny bar had been so removed from my part of the city and the women there so standoffish, I hadn't gone back.

"I wish it were easier to meet girls," Santana mumbled.

"You didn't have any trouble meeting me," I teased, nudging her foot with mine.

She didn't respond to that, other than to keep her eyes locked on the ceiling.

I was perplexed and then afraid. Aside from being assured that I wasn't just another girl to her, I had no idea how she actually felt about me. Not in any kind of intimate sense. I realized that I should have asked for more definition of what we were before getting naked with her her. But it was too late for that now.

Not ready to leave the peaceful post-sex lull we were in, I went back to thinking about how our meeting had been a chance encounter and how so many other girls who liked girls weren't as fortunate as we were, not matter how abstract and poorly defined our relationship was. I wondered if and how I would have met another girl if Tina hadn't left her purse at Jules' that night and sent Santana looking for it, and if I'd be happy with another girl, and what groups of friends she might have introduced me to by now.

And that's when the idea came to me. Why not someday open a bar for women who liked women? Why should the city be peppered with gay bars while women were quarantined to the East Bay or to book clubs and political action committees and amateur softball leagues? Why were there no places for lesbians that were as lively and exciting as Jules? I couldn't find much of a reason.

So I decided someday I would save up enough money to own my own bar. It would be everything I loved about Jules, and be on my own terms, a place I thought other girls like me would want to come. I got so excited about that distant prospect, I had to tell someone. Since Santana was lying right next to me, she seemed a likely candidate.

"I think someday I'll open a place like Jules', only for ladies."

That got her attention. She turned her head abruptly, looking at me with interested eyes. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," I said, letting myself sink into the idea, imagining colored lights spilling onto a nice marble bar, with a dance floor in the back and a DJ booth instead of Jules' dreaded jukebox.

Santana studied me and I felt, through her eyes, that I had suddenly become a fascinating creature full of good ideas.

"Why someday?" she asked. "Why not now?"

Her eagerness to push me into business was alarming, and I had a myriad of excuses at the ready. "Because I'm already fifty thousand dollars in debt from grad school, I don't know anything about running a business, and I don't know what lesbians want in a bar."

Santana didn't seem deterred. "I took some business classes in college. I could help you draft a business plan and maybe get a loan."

Now she just seemed foolish.

And yet her eagerness to help endeared her to me more.

I didn't know what to say, so I just gave her an appreciative smile, wondering if maybe she'd be up for another round before she made her usual excuse to leave. I rolled toward her, studying how her lips were dry from kissing, and how her eyelids were the calmest thing about her. Post-sex Santana, before her barrier went up, was the most beautiful Santana. I was glad she was relaxing today. It made me feel so close to her.

"I'm serious," she said. "There's a market for it here. You should take some certificate courses at Berkeley Extension and put together a business plan. I'd put money into it," she said, to emphasize how much she believed my idea would work.

I was surprised at how enthusiastic and generous she was being. "You think?"

She nodded fervently.

"I don't know..." I said, going back to my original reasons for keeping my dream in the distance.

"It's a really good idea," Santana insisted. "Don't let doubt stop you."

Something bubbled up through my chest. I was so grateful for her confidence in me, even if it was reckless, I couldn't help but roll into her for a kiss, which led to another kiss, which led to another, until we were panting and reeling into another release.

* * *

x

* * *

Since we started kissing, all my dates with Santana ended the same way the third had, with her kissing me in her car and me being torn between wanting to kiss her all night and not wanting to put myself in a situation I wasn't ready for. If we walked instead of drove, she would stop at my stoop, take my hand, and kiss me until I felt weak in the knees. I loved it more every time. I still felt butterflies up from the tips of my toes to the ends of hair.

I couldn't imagine it felt as good to her as it did to me. But with the way she kept her eyes closed, lips still parted for a moment when we pulled away, as though to savor our kisses, I wondered if maybe she did. When a smile graced her face just before she opened her eyes, I knew she was enjoying it as much as I was.

I, Brittany Pierce, loved kissing Santana Lopez.

I loved kissing her so much that I didn't want to wait until the end of our dates anymore. Sometimes we'd be walking down the sidewalk on the way to her car after dinner or a movie and I would pull her between two buildings or press her against a wall so I could kiss her silly right then.

On my doorstep, we'd kiss until I felt like I had to decide to invite her up or not, and something always stopped me. Maybe it was what happened with Vance. Or maybe it was just wanting to preserve our courtship, in its blissful, innocent state.

Santana took me to the Farmer's Market on Columbus before ducking into a rustic little restaurant for fondue. When the bill came, she tried to pay like usual. Which was flattering, but also made me uneasy.

It's no secret that sometimes when a guy pays for dinner, he's expecting or at least hoping to get laid that night. I hated that as much as anyone, and that was one of Justine's rants I will join in on. Because when you think about it, if the average guy wanted to buy sex from even the most unfortunate streetwalker, it would probably cost more than a dinner. Or at least most dinners that I've eaten. So why is the cost of a meal deemed worthy of sex in return? If we're going to hash out this horrible heterosexual dating script, sex for pay is always over a hundred dollars. And the higher up the escort rung you get, the more expensive it is. Why would I give it up for the price of a meal? I value myself more than that. But I guess other people don't think that way, because there's still this awful unspoken thing about paying for dinner and receiving sex.

I had no idea if Santana subscribed to that bullshit, but I was afraid she did. So when she reached for her purse and I objected when she pushed my card away, I fought it.

"Let me at least pay half," I argued.

"No, no, it's my treat," she insisted. "You don't get paid enough for what you do at that awful lab of yours."

I frowned, even though I wasn't offended. She was right, I didn't get paid enough for the mental agony of being bored to tears. But I frowned at her attempt to Sugarmama me.

"It's not about how much I make," I said. "It's about courting you."

At that she stopped. "Courting me?" she asked, surprised.

"Yeah," I said. "That's what we're doing, right? How am I supposed to show you I like you if you won't let me pay for dinner?"

As soon as I said it, I regretted it. The obvious answer to my question, or at least the answer that rang loudest in my head as soon as I asked, was _have sex with her._ I had accidently fed right into the script of one person paying for dinner and receiving sex in return. I prayed Santana wouldn't take the lead and run with it.

"Well..." Santana said, looking around with a smirk that told me she was probably thinking about sex.

"I mean," I said, anxious to stop the conversation I had accidently set in motion. "Like, how am I supposed to feel like a worthy date if I don't pull my own weight, you know?"

Santana pursed her lips and I could tell the conversation I didn't want to have was slipping away.

I was surprised by my own bravery as I continued. "I like you, and this is one way for me to show you. So just let me pay for dinner."

She smiled, and I hoped that meant she was agreeing.

"Would you like to have a glass of wine and talk at my place?" she offered, fingering her empty glass.

"Are you letting me pay?" I said, sidestepping the issue that kept bobbing up like a cork.

Santana grimaced but nodded.

I was relieved but then anxious because I was once again being asked to set a limit. No matter how sexy and beautiful Santana was, I wasn't ready to have sex with her. I don't know how I knew that, but I just did. I wasn't ready to see her naked, nor have her see me naked. I wasn't ready to talk about past partners and testing and my secret turn-ons. I knew I would only be ready to sleep with her when those things changed. I hadn't done that with Vance and regretted it immediately upon waking. I didn't want to do that to myself again.

I studied Santana, trying to deduce if she wanted more than a drink and conversation at her house. I knew that we would be able to talk more closely and get to know each other better if we were in a quieter place. But her house also held the threat of possible sex.

I looked down at the tablecloth, folding my elbows on the edge of the table. "A drink at your house sounds nice," I said. My voice was guarded because I knew I had to say the next part or do this strange dance the entire night. "But only if you really mean a drink. I'm not ready for anything else."

Santana blinked and nodded quickly. "Of course," she said. "Just a drink."

I studied her for a moment until I was certain she was telling the truth. Her face told me she would respect me, and that she thought a simple glass of wine and continued conversation was a satisfactory way to end our date.

I felt my whole body exhale at that. I knew the tension that had just left my body would only have escalated at her house if I hadn't said anything. I would have felt the guilt of repeatedly backing away from her while she made sweet, respectful advances that were fueled by nothing but her genuine attraction to me, which was flattering and no cause for alarm. I didn't want to push her away. By voicing what I needed, hopefully I wouldn't have to.

She let me pay for dinner, and the feeling of putting my credit card in the bill holder was worth the price alone. As she offered me her arm as we walked out of the restaurant, I felt like we were finally the same height.

I decided right then that sticking to my convictions was more important to me than getting off or accommodating her expectations. Since I was throwing out my entire script for dating - I'd only ever had one for men, after all - I decided that no one would get to write the new one but me. And it was going to be different. I would do everything I could to give her the same floaty, bubbling feeling I had in my chest from being wanted. But I wouldn't sleep with her until I was ready.

Santana's apartment was really nice. She was the only person my age I knew who had her own place without roommates. While I'm sure the quiet and control over her space must have been nice, I would have gotten lonely without Justine or at least a cat or something. But I'm sure Santana liked it. She was more independent than I was.

Santana offered me my choice of Chardonnay or Shiraz. Not knowing much about wine, I shrugged and said I'd have whatever she was having. She went into her kitchen and came back with two glasses of red wine, telling me about the vintage and winery she had gotten the Shiraz from. I nodded and pretended to understand what she was talking about.

After that topic quickly died down due to my complete lack of knowledge, she looked at me and bit her lips, looking unsure for a moment before she decided to ask me whatever she was wondering.

But instead, it came out a hesitant statement. "So, I'm not dating anyone else."

Realizing what she was asking me, I smiled. "Me neither."

She looked relieved as she said, "I'd be pretty happy to keep it that way, if you're open to that."

Feeling her adoration wash over me, I tried not to blush as I nodded.

"Yeah?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said, feeling my face grow warmer.

"Good."

There was a moment of exciting silence as she stared at me, and even though our knees were touching, I wanted to be closer.

But she didn't move, so I initiated a kiss. I leaned into her, feeling the perennial butterflies overtake my stomach. She seemed pleasantly surprised at first, humming into me as she slowly set her glass on the coffee table, melting forward and bringing her hand up to cup my head. She went slow, meeting my tongue gently and savoring each slip of our lips. When we'd kissed to the point where I was too worked up to continue without breathing, I pulled back.

Even though we were still taking it slow, I was pretty sure I had just entered into my first real, adult relationship, and I was so, so happy. Scared, too. But the excitement that went with it helped drown out the worst of the fear.

On our the next few dates, Santana never pushed for more. I started going up to her apartment for a glass or wine or to borrow a book or movie she had raved about every time. We would sit on her couch and talk, bodies twisted toward each other with yearning, sipping wine and smiling like fools. I always felt safe in her apartment.

We started kissing on her couch every time too. Our kisses grew bigger and deeper with more probing and smacking and panting and extracting our hair from the tangles of our mouths. I learned how to still her hands when I felt uncomfortable, and explored the planes of her body that I wanted to know. Somehow I always knew to stop before I got in over my head. I would pull away, panting, and smile at her, and she would understand we were going to stop there for the night.

Or so I thought.

One night, after a particularly heavy makeout session where I had pushed her deep into the cushion of the couch before pulling back, she sat up, smoothing her hair and shirt before taking a deep breath and looking at me with uncertainty.

"Are you comfortable dating me?" she asked.

It was not the question I expected, but I answered with certainty. "I _love_ dating you," I said.

Santana exhaled in relief, but still looked confused. "And the making out and stuff... that's okay?" she asked.

Still feeling all aflutter from the ghosts of her kisses on my neck, I nodded.

She gave me an uncertain, fleeting smile. "I was just wondering how you felt about going further."

That heavy feeling settled onto me again and I felt like I had to be the bearer of bad news.

"Sex is awesome..." I said, starting with the positive, but sounding uncertain.

She gave me a more genuine smile and rolled her eyes as if to say _obviously_.

I took a breath, trying to figure out how to explain to her why I was so hesitant to jump into bed with her. It wasn't about her. I was hesitant to jump into bed with _anyone_. Ever since dating Vance, I felt like I was disposable once I slept with someone.

But I couldn't say that to her.

"I guess, I just... I like getting to know you without bringing in all the pressure of having sex," I said, shrugging to try to keep the conversation light. I didn't want to get too deep into discussing why sex was scary for me.

Santana nodded, her brow furrowing as she tried to listen between my words. "Sex does add pressure," she said. "But so does not having it."

I bit my lips and tilted my head in acknowledgment. I was certainly feeling the pressure of not having sex at that moment.

"Are you attracted to me?" she asked, unable to hide the apprehension she felt as she prepared for my answer.

My eyes went wide and I almost laughed at the question. One of the hottest women alive was asking me if I was attracted to her. "Uh, _yeah_," I said. "I'm _insanely_ attracted to you."

She relaxed and gave me a nervous smile.

"You couldn't tell?" I asked.

She gave an embarrassed shrug. "I don't know what's going through your mind."

I put my hand on her knee to reassure her. "You are probably the most attractive person I've ever met."

Santana smiled and tucked her hair behind her ears as she looked down. She was flattered, but confused. I knew I had to give her more of an explanation.

"I feel like the way most people date is strange. Like, two strangers try to get to know each other through a series of weird customs where they have to navigate unknown histories and sensitivities while figuring out who pays for things and consuming tons of alcohol, all the while keeping their hopes and expectations in check. And in addition to all that, they are expected to get naked and do something that is sometimes fun but can also make them feel really crappy and vulnerable. It's just... it's too much for people who don't have a lot of history. Well, it is for me."

Santana looked at me in deep thought, brow creasing. "I never thought about it that way."

There was a moment of quiet and I desperately wished she would tell me what she was thinking. Did she think I was crazy? Self-depriving? Prude? I bit my lip, nervous about the fact that I was verbalizing the resolution I'd somehow made without realizing it. I wanted to wait a while to have sex with her. I hoped she wouldn't roll her eyes or sigh in frustration.

But she looked contemplative. There was a bit of concern in her face, but I wanted to believe it was because I hadn't been upfront with her until now.

After a moment, the expression lifted as she raised her eyes to me.

"Okay," she said, in her most gentle, adoring voice. She took my hand and squeezed. "We'll wait."

I gave her a hesitant, grateful smile.

"And for the record," she said, smile growing playful, "I'm insanely attracted to you too."

* * *

x

* * *

After eight months of stripping, my life felt very well-rounded. I danced at Jez for money four times a week, spun around poles fully clothed at Swivel under Cassie's tutelage five times a week, drank wine and watched movies with Justine, hung out with Santana and Schro, paid bills, did laundry, bought groceries, and had sex with Dr. Turner for pay. I felt great, inside and out. I could honestly say that I loved my life. The fact that I'd recently purchased a new BMW didn't hurt either.

After eight months of our arrangement, I trusted Dr. Turner. Not with my real name or anything personal, but I trusted him to not fuck up the good thing we had.

I use the word _good_ loosely. It wasn't a winning sexual arrangement for me in terms of my own pleasure, since he had yet to make me come. A few times he'd paid extra to watch me masturbate to orgasm. It had been surprisingly difficult, and I'd left more tired than usual, and not in a good way. It required a lot of mental energy and self-talk to get myself to let go around him.

Every weekend when I arrived, we'd chat for ten or fifteen minutes, which had confused me at first, because I felt it was blurring the lines between our no-strings sex arrangement and dating. But then I realized that I engaged in polite conversation with grocery clerks and bank tellers and people at the bus stop too and it that had no bearing on our status as strangers. So I supposed that chatting with Dr. Turner wasn't strange. It probably assuaged his guilt about the whole situation. That made me feel a bit tender for him, seeing the hints of guilt that crept up.

His guilt showed up in the way he asked if I'd be around the week of Christmas, and if our arrangement was working out for me. He would rub his palms against the fabric of his slacks as he sucked in air before asking. He looked like a highschool boy for just a moment before he slipped back into his rehearsed ease with me. I always maintained a smile, assuring him I would give him notice if I left town or wanted to make changes to our arrangement.

When Christmas rolled around, he gave me my usual pay plus a mish-mash of gift certificates to local clothing shops, everything from Chico's to Victoria's Secret. Considering I didn't wear clothing for most of the time I was around him, it seemed ironic. But he had probably absorbed a bit of the rescuer complex I'd experienced a few times in the Booth: men who paid me to talk but never asked me to touch myself or role play with them, who chatted until they felt they had enough buy-in to try to talk the me out of stripping and save my soul. The other girls at Jez sometimes laughed at these men, calling them suckers, and sometimes were relieved to find one simply because they made shifts more interesting and less scary. Personally, I liked them. They were well-meaning and often smart. Rescuers never tried to negotiate illegal extras. They just talked and hoped their money wasn't going to drugs.

Only once did I ever use my stripping money to buy drugs. I bought Justine a bag of pot for her birthday and we made pot brownies together. I made sure to let her know the pot had been purchased with stripping money, and she shook with pot-infused laughter, saying that we were literally getting high off my ass. I cackled and fell forward onto her, repeated again and again, "High off my ass! High off my ass!"

When I got to Dr. Turner's one night about eight months into our arrangement, I could tell he'd already had a few drinks. He was loose and his smile was slightly uneven, but he had his wits about him, and he wasn't stumbling. At the first sign of him being unruly, I would have left. But I trusted him. He wasn't the type to get out of line after a few drinks.

He ushered me into the living room and sat on the couch, adolescent smirk in place as he lifted his beer bottle to his lips.

"How are you feelin' tonight, Vi?" he asked, wiggling his eyebrows.

I smiled my Violet-smile and perched next to him, resting one hand on his shoulder, tracing his muscle. "Pretty good. Glad to be here," I lied. Well, it wasn't an outright lie, but I hadn't actively been looking forward to seeing him all day. I was looking forward to the paycheck and the reliability of our arrangement.

"Good," Dr. Turner said. "Me too." He grinned and took another sip. "Whataya say you give me a little show tonight?" he asked, grin growing wicked.

"You want me to strip?" I asked, my voice airy and coquettish.

"And make yourself _come_," he said, low and excited.

I plastered on a smile I hoped was tinged with eagerness, while inside I grimaced and steeled myself for the hard work he was asking me to do.

"You know my price," I said, leaning in to run my tongue up the crest of his ear.

I'd learned well before meeting Dr. Turner that ears are erogenous, but Dr. Turner's seemed especially sensitive, inside and out. He loved when I was vocal, he loved when I talked dirty, and he loved when I licked and nipped at his ears. I knew he loved it because he was willing to pay me for plenty of extras when I stimulated his ears in some way.

He shuddered. "Two-hundred on top of your hourly," he said, voice wavering. "You got it."

I tucked my tongue back into my mouth and smiled. I loved the power I had over him in negotiation. He had only turned me down three times, and that was in the beginning before I'd learned how to make offers in a way he wouldn't refuse.

I hummed and stood, taking his hand to lead him to his bedroom, but he held me back.

"I want to do it out here tonight." He looked up at me with a wicked smile, which I played right into.

"Why Anthony, you naughty boy," I said, knowing I was walking a thin line between flirtation and mocking. "Sex in the living room? So scandalous."

I straddled him and his hands immediately gripped my ass.

"With a whore," he said, taunting me.

I let out a playful gasp and rocked my pelvis into him. "You really are dirty, aren't you?"

"Not as dirty as you, baby," he mumbled, settling back into the couch with a grin as he gave my ass a firm swat. "Let me see you work it."

I rose off his lap slowly, stretching out the time he'd bought. I walked over to the stereo and turned on some music, hoping it would be suitable for stripping. After months of working at Jez, I could peel to Billie Holliday and Prince and even Tim McGraw. Aside from classical music and Tuvan throat singing, I had yet to find music I couldn't work with.

After a few minutes, I was naked except for my lingerie, and Dr. Turner had slipped into his familiar loose-jawed stare. As I'd gotten better at stripping, he'd asked me to do it more and more often. I wasn't complaining. It significantly decreased the time we actually had sex, and I was making on average eight hundred dollars every time I saw him.

Not bad for sixty minutes of work.

The thing is, it really was _work_. When I was down to my panties, I swiveled my hips toward the floor in a move Cassie called "sexy down" before kneeling. Then, quirking my eyebrow as I stared at Dr. turner, I slid my hand down over my breasts, down my stomach, and into my panties.

And then I had to shut my eyes or I'd be there the whole night while nothing happened. Call it artistic integrity or something, but for some reason, it had never occurred to me to fake it.

First I had to think of things that would actually arouse me. I pretended Dr. Turner wasn't there as I sank lower, eventually ending up on my back, legs spread with my panties around my knees. I rubbed at myself, grateful for the lube I'd applied before arriving.

I thought about the girls at work who were particularly attractive to me. Before I started stripping, I would have thought it improper to think about coworkers while I was masturbating. But when you work naked and hear beautiful women saying sexy things all day, it's kind of hard not to. Our locker room climate invited free positive and overtly sexual commentary on each others' bodies. I couldn't think of any other job where it was acceptable to compliment a coworker on the toning work she'd done on her ass or admire a new clit piercing, but at Jez I didn't think twice about it. When you can recognize your coworkers by the smell of their pussies, all bets are off.

Tonight my thoughts drifted to a girl who had worked at Jez for only two months before disappearing. I only spoke to her a few times, but what had captivated me was how she seemed to seal herself in her own world as she danced. She rarely talked to customers, and I couldn't remember her ever working the Private Pleasures Booth. She was a true dancer, and I'd slipped her one of Cassie's cards for Swivel before feeling foolish. She didn't need dance lessons. She was too good.

I thought about the smoothness of her skin and the silkiness of her hair as it draped over her shoulders and breasts. I imagined her hair sliding down my stomach as she hovered above me, about to go down on me. As I dipped my fingers into myself and began circling my clit, I left Dr. Turner's living room and was transported to a fantasy land where only that girl and I existed.

Halfway through the fantasy, a man appeared too, and they both worked on me, whispering dirty things in my ear as I wound higher. Finally, I felt myself nearing the edge, and had the presence of mind to tell the fantasy man and woman I was close so that Dr. Turner could hear and prepare. I tipped over, feeling the girl draw me out as the man sucked my nipples, and then floated back down onto the carpet in reality.

I took a few breaths before opening my eyes and smiling at Dr. Turner. He was stroking himself on the sofa, mesmerized by the show I'd just given him. He grunted his appreciation and worked himself tighter before tilting his chin up in a wordless request for me to rise. I stood and allowed myself another moment to recover as I walked to my purse and took out a condom.

Condoms had become one of the most important things in my arrangement with Dr. Turner. In addition to providing obvious health protections, they also created a psychological barrier. He wasn't directly touching my insides when we had sex, and for some reason that really mattered to me.

A few times Dr. Turner had asked about barebacking, offering me hundreds of extra dollars, swearing on his life that he wasn't sleeping with anyone else and would get whatever tests I wanted him to get. Even though I'd been on the Pill for months now, I immediately turned him down, knowing that was something I wasn't willing to negotiate. He'd been disappointed, but I didn't care how he felt. I was never going to have sex with him without a condom, just like I never had sex with the girls at Jez in the a Private Pleasures booth without a dental dam. I needed something, no matter how thin, to separate me from other people.

I slid the condom onto Dr. Turner's penis after giving it a few strokes while whispering dirty things in his ear. It was all an act to buy myself time to recover and so I wouldn't have to ride him for too long. After an orgasm, I was tired, and Dr. Turner had become increasingly lazy with the ways he wanted to have sex. By the time I slid onto him and braced myself on the back of the sofa, I was already counting the minutes until I could get dressed and go home.

Dr. Turner was especially vocal that night, grunting and thrusting up into me as I bounced in his lap. He was talking more than usual, asking if I liked it and how I was feeling. I knew that meant he wanted dirty talk. I panted a lot, playacting the same way I did in the booth.

Good. So good. My pussy is so full. Fuck me harder. Indiscernible moaning.

I had the script down.

It wasn't until he came, groaning and convulsing, that I let my body droop into its actual tiredness. I lifted off him and stood, looking for the clothes I had peeled off strategically. I had just bent down to pick up my bra when I saw it.

Tucked between two books on Dr. Turner's shelf was a video camera with a piece of black tape over the recording light.

I froze.

Dr. Turner had videotaped our whole session. Everything from our negotiation about my masturbation rate to me riding him.

What the fuck was I supposed to do?

My thoughts raced. Had this been the first time he'd taped me? Was there footage of me stored somewhere in his house or - I felt sick - on the internet? What other boundaries had he crossed while my eyes were closed or my head was turned the other way? I was so angry and scared, I almost couldn't move.

I wanted to throw the camera on the ground and smash it with the stiletto I was still wearing. But he hadn't paid me yet, and I'd be damned if I walked out of his house without as much of his money as possible.

Standing back up slowly, pacing my breath so I would appear calm, I got dressed facing the wall. My jaw was wire-tight and my hands were shaking with anger, but I tried to appear cool.

Once I was dressed, I turned back around, putting on the most saccharine smile I could muster.

"That'll be eight-fifty."

"I thought we agreed eight hundred," Dr. Turner frowned.

"Dirty talk is extra," I said, reminding him of our going rate.

He grunted and stood, going into his bedroom to retrieve the wad of bills I was accustomed to receiving. When he returned, penis dangling free between his legs, he handed me the bills and ran his hand through his hair. "Thanks, Vi," he said, turning back to the bedroom. "Same time next week."

I watched him go with hate sparks flying out of my eyes. He had broken every ounce of trust I had in him. I had never found someone so unattractive. Everything about him _revolted_ me.

"Oh, Dr. Turner?" I called after him.

"I told you, babe, call me Anthony," he said, giving me a sly grin as he turned back around.

"Anthony," I said, going stony.

He raised his eyebrows, wondering what I wanted.

"You didn't pay me enough," I said, standing up as tall as I could.

He held his hands out, perplexed. "Eight-fifty. We agreed."

I put one hand on my hip. "We did agree. But I also recall you agreeing to my rule that _these_," I said, turning to the shelf and extracting the camera from its place, "were not allowed."

Dr. Turner's eyes widened for a moment before he let out a little grunt of a laugh. "It's no big deal, babe. It's just to help me get through the week. I can't afford you _every_ night."

"Have you done this before?" I demanded.

"No," he said, holding up his hand as if to prove his honesty. But it looked phony to me. I didn't know if I could believe him.

"Is this the only one?" I asked, jerking the camera in my hand and glaring at him.

"Yeah."

I narrowed my eyes at him.

"Swear to god, it's the only one," he said, raising his hands higher.

I didn't know if I could believe him, but I didn't have much of a choice. I was helpless, scared, and angry.

Making a show of putting the camera into my purse, I looked him square in the eye and said, "If you even _think_ of putting footage of me online, remember I have footage of you soliciting prostitution that I will take straight to the cops. I can blur my face out. One dumb click of your finger and you'll be in court." I stormed toward the door, yanking it open. "Don't ever fucking call me again," I said, slamming it behind me.


	9. Flight

A/N: It takes a special person to edit thousands of words from chaos to some semblance of sense week after week. Have I mentioned my beta is awesome? JJ certainly is, and if you haven't read her story, you're missing out.

Also, I have a fun little poll on my blog. Check it out and let me know your thoughts. The responses have been fascinating so far!

* * *

**Chapter 9: Flight**

* * *

So here's what you missed on Dandelion: Bar!Britt and Bar!Santana hooked up again and Santana promised Britt she was more than just another notch on her bedpost before they talked about Britt's future career plans and Santana encouraged her to go for it rather than waiting for a sign from the universe. Lab!Britt is totally smitten with Lab!Santana and really, really loves kissing her but isn't ready to have sex, which she told her after they agreed they didn't want to see other people and are pretty much girlfriends now. Violet went to a normal night of work with Dr. Turner and he asked her to strip, masturbate to orgasm, and ride him, and afterwards she discovered he'd been videotaping her. And that's what you missed!

* * *

As the quiet settled in around us, I realized that I had jumped back into bed with Santana - for the third and fourth time - without having The Talk. I was usually careful about Talking before having sex with someone, but we'd been wasted the first few times and I didn't want to interrupt what we were doing to have that unfun conversation. But I knew I should have.

Knowing she'd been with at least one other person since we'd slept together, I realized I needed to bring it up now, even if it was awkward.

"Hey, so... I probably should have asked you before," I began, trying to sound casual. "Have you been tested recently?"

Santana stiffened. "Not recently, no."

There was a tense moment of silence before she turned her head towards me and said, "Do you want me to?"

Relieved by her offer, I nodded.

"Are you worried about something?"

I gave a forced casual shrug. "I just like to be cautious."

She raised her eyebrows and said, "It's a bit late for that."

"I know," I said, feeling embarrassed. "I should have asked before."

"It's okay," she said, adjusting her head to focus back on the ceiling. "I'll make an appointment."

"Okay," I said, relieved that conversation had gone somewhat smoothly.

It was quiet for a moment before she turned her head and gave me an expectant expression. I was confused for a moment before she said, "Are you going to offer to do the same?"

Feeling foolish, I quickly said, "Oh yeah, of course. I'll- I'll make an appointment."

She looked back at the ceiling and seemed to relax. Then she smiled and look back at me, all traces of tension replaced by happiness and excitement. "We're doing this, aren't we?" she said.

I didn't know exactly what she meant, but I knew it was one step closer to us dating. We were acknowledging _something_. Bursting with happiness, I nodded and leaned up to kiss her. She kissed me back for a few moments, slow and tender, before her phone started buzzing.

Reluctant, she broke the kiss and reached for her phone. "Shit," she muttered. "I have class." She let out a heavy sigh and kissed me a few more times before she rolled over and sat up.

When she rose from the bed and started putting on her bra, I took in the sight of her backside for the first time. Well, at least it was the first time I'd seen it sober. Aside from the stunning flow of her curves, something on her left shoulderblade caught my eye.

"Is that a tattoo?" I asked.

"Oh," Santana said with an ashamed, gasping laugh as she reached over her shoulder to touch the ink. "Yeah."

"What's it of?" I asked, squinting.

"It's- it's a bird," Santana mumbled, reaching for her shirt. She drew it over her arms and was about to pull it over her head when I stopped her.

"Wait, I wanna see," I protested. "I didn't notice it before."

"It's dumb," Santana said, still mumbling. "That was part of my 'college rebellious phase'," she said, mocking herself with air quotes. She paused with her back to me, leaning over so I could see the tasteful form of a sparrow in flight on her shoulder blade, no bigger than a quarter.

I'd seen plenty of tattoos of birds in my life - every other guy at the bar seemed to have one - but this one was special. The bird seemed to be yearning upwards, moving along Santana's skin, craving air. There was motion in its stillness, a cry for something more. It was the most beautiful tattoo I'd ever seen, even if it was small.

"It's beautiful," I said. "You should be more rebellious."

Santana pulled a shirt over her head, trapping the bird against her skin as she raised her eyebrows in rushed disagreement. "No, I really shouldn't," she said. There seemed to be more to her objection, but I was so calm and happy with what had just happened in her bed, I didn't want to pry. Prying always made her shutter up and retreat. Given that she wasn't making a flimsy excuse to leave for the first time, I didn't want to push my luck.

"Now I'm just like every other dyke who has a matching tattoo with someone she no longer speaks to," Santana muttered, seemingly to herself.

She finished getting dressed in the quiet and I wondered what the story behind her tattoo was. But I figured she'd tell me when she was ready.

She picked up her book bag and walked over to the bed, bending to kiss me first on the forehead and then on the lips.

"Have a good day," she said. "If you leave before I get back, just make sure the door locks behind you. I'll see you tonight."

I smiled up at her and grabbed a bunch of her shirt to pull her back down for one more kiss.

Then she left, blowing me a kiss from the doorway before she closed it.

I burrowed deep into her bed, unable to keep myself from giggling with happiness.

Santana and I were more than just friends. It was official.

I stayed in her bed for a long time before reluctantly extracting myself and going home to shower.

Santana surprised me again when she texted me later that day about the business plan she seemed to think we were going to put together.

_I looked up stuff at Berkeley Extension_ _and there are a few classes that would be really good that start in a few weeks. Are you in? :)_

I stared at the text for a while, glad I didn't have to respond right away, despite the confusing sense of obligation I felt to answer immediately. Texting is weird like that sometimes. But in this case, I was glad I had time to figure out how to respond.

I liked Santana. I liked her a lot. But she was also really confusing and I didn't know if we were actually dating. Now she wanted to register for a semester-long course together, which my better judgment told me wasn't a good idea.

But the other part of me, the part that wasn't paralyzed by my better judgment, imagined carpooling to class with her, sitting next to each other and writing little notes on the edges of our notebooks, and not-so-accidentally ending up at a coffee shop or café after class, where we'd talk about class and the other students and the teacher and develop a kickass business plan that would make both of us rich and somehow nonthreateningly bind us together in business and romance for the next fifty to seventy-five years.

So even though I knew it might be a bad idea, I texted back, _Cool! Let's talk about it tonight._

Her reply came quickly_. Okay :) XOXO_

I couldn't help myself from smiling stupidly at my phone and flopping onto my bed.

That afternoon, Justine and I were watching the latest episode of _Chopped_. We love that show. Sometimes we'll be lying on the couch or walking to the bus and she'll say, "lobster, soy sauce, frosting, and chili peppers" and I have to make up a meal featuring those four ingredients. She always wins, but mostly because she's an amazing cook, even when our meals are imaginary.

Justine looked at me as her foot pressed into my thigh and she said, "Hey, want me to invite Santana to my party?"

I gave her a relieved nod.

Justine's birthday was coming up, and we had planned a party for the following night. I knew there would be a lot of couples coming, but it was too early for me to ask Santana to come as my girlfriend. Apparently Justine knew that too. If Justine asked her, it was a direct invitation and had nothing to do with me. She and Justine were friendly. Friends came to birthday parties. This way, I wouldn't have to ask Santana, and we wouldn't have to have an awkward non-conversation about what was implied by her coming with me to the party.

A few hours later, Santana knocked at the door. I knew it was her. We hung out pretty much every day, and on nights when I didn't work, she would reliably show up with wine or something else yummy and we'd curl up on the couch.

Now that we weren't just friends, I was extra excited about seeing her. I was giddy just from being around her. She was so pretty and fun and intense and funny, I all but forgot about the rest of the world. I just wanted to be around her all the time and absorb her into my flesh. As soon as she walked in, I tackled her against the wall and kissed her, smiling and humming.

Santana seemed startled, lips stiffening against mine as she grunted in surprise. She put her hand on my waist and guided me away, eyes scanning the room.

"Hey," she said, handing me a bottle of sparkling lemonade.

"Hey," I grinned, stepping back into her. "How was class?"

"Fine. Is Justine here?" she asked, still looking around nervously.

"She's in the kitchen. Why?"

"Just wondering. I'll go get us some glasses."

"No, wait," I said, slipping my hand around her waist. "One more." I leaned in and fitted my lips to hers again, and she relaxed enough to kiss back for a moment before I pulled away. Then she went into the kitchen and I heard her chatting with Justine as I turned on the TV and cued up our movie for the night, _Six Degrees of Separation_.

Justine's voice carried into the living room. "Hey, I'm having a little party here tomorrow night for my birthday. I keep meaning to invite you. Want to come?"

"Sure!" Santana said. "Sounds fun."

I smiled to myself, happy that my best friend and my... whatever Santana was... were getting along so well.

When they came into the living room, Santana smiled at me and winked. It made my tummy flutter in the best way as she handed me a glass of lemonade. She seated herself in the middle of the couch, drawing my legs over her lap and covering us with a blanket. Justine placed a bowl of healthy but delicious popcorn on the coffee table and took her seat in her armchair. After we started the movie, Santana slipped her hands under the blanket to rub my calves and massage my feet. I never wanted to move.

That is, until the movie was over. At that point, I was so alive with Santana's touch that I wanted to march her into my bedroom and take off all her clothes and repeat what we'd already done twice that day. But Santana stayed rooted to the couch, lips pursed for a moment.

"That's such a head trip," she said.

"I know, right?" Justine said. "To think that we're all connected like that."

"I meant how good an actor young Will Smith was, but yeah," Santana laughed. "Pretty crazy to think we all know someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows someone etcetera who knows us."

"That movie was made in the eighties though," Justine said, gesturing to the screen with her glass. "These days with social media and how often people travel, I bet we're down to three or four degrees of separation. Globalization isn't just happening in the economy."

Santana nodded, and I saw gears turning in her head hard for a minute. "Pretty scary," she said.

Then she seemed to decide something and sat forward, patting my legs. "I gotta rest up for tomorrow," she said. "I have a big paper to write. But it was great seeing you guys."

Disappointed and confused by Santana for the hundredth time, I let the couch support me as I drooped. "Okay," I mumbled. "What about the Berkeley Extension classes?" I asked, hoping to get her to stay long enough to get her in my bed.

"We'll talk about it tomorrow," Santana said, moving my legs and standing up. "Be good until then."

I reached up to touch her arm and made a pouting pucker with my mouth, hoping she would bend down for a goodnight kiss. But my hand on her arm seemed to startle her. She patted my hand and walked quickly to the door, clearly not wanting to kiss me. Maybe she was just shy around Justine or didn't want to make her feel like a third wheel or something. Although anyone who knows Justine even a little bit knows she wouldn't have cared one bit.

Sighing and giving Santana a tight-lipped smile, I resigned myself to not understanding her ever. She closed the door and I was left in the mysterious quiet.

But then I considered that maybe I wasn't doing something properly. Maybe the reason I was confused about Santana was because I wasn't making an effort to make this more than a sexual relationship. I definitely wanted more than a sexual relationship with her. I liked her mind as much as her body. What little I understood of it, at least.

So though it scared the shit out of me, I decided I was going to ask her on a date. Then we would officially be dating and I wouldn't be so confused. Why hadn't that thought occurred to me earlier? We just needed a bit of situational definition.

Since Santana made me feel so special, I wanted her to feel special too. I knew we were more than friends; she wouldn't cup my face and stare into my eyes for as long as she had that morning if we were just fuckbuddies. She wouldn't spend evenings stretched out on my couch with me, laughing or saying nothing at all as the hours rolled by faster than I thought they could. We were more than friends, and it was high time we had a proper date.

The next morning I walked up to her apartment, bouncing excitement and anxiety. I'd never asked a girl out before. She let me in and seemed happy to see me, but distracted.

"What are you up to?" I asked.

"Tidying up a bit," she said. "Taking a break from writing my paper."

When we got up to her apartment, I saw a huge pile of laundry on her bed, but the rest of the room was just as big a mess.

"So I was wondering..." I said, feigning shyness, "if you would let me take you out to dinner this weekend." I flashed her a bright smile that told her how happy I was to be dating her.

Santana stiffened. "Like a date?"

I smiled wider and nodded. "Like a date."

Santana bit her lips and turned away, picking up a shirt and folding it. "No thanks," she said. She set to work folding another shirt, and then another, hyperfocusing on them to avoid looking at me.

I was perplexed. Wasn't going out to dinner a normal thing for people who liked each other to do?

"Did you want to do something else?" I asked, wondering if maybe money was a problem. She was always nervous about money, so maybe going out to dinner was too expensive.

"Uh... we could go see that new Oz movie," she said, still sounding stiff. "My cousin gave me a gift certificate for two tickets and a large popcorn."

Figuring I must have guessed right about the money part, I agreed. "Sounds good," I said. I leaned back against her desk, looking around her room as she busied herself with her laundry. I suddenly felt awkward and out of place, like she wanted me to leave.

"Anything you need help with?" I offered.

"Nope." The word was thin and curt. It made me more uneasy.

"Okay..." I said, glancing around for anything to talk about.

I looked at her pictures for a moment, studying how her face had subtly thinned over the years. The picture of her high school graduation was only slightly different than her college graduation: sandwiched between her parents, the only difference was the color of her cap and gown and a slight definition in her jaw and cheeks. But she was beautiful in both.

I was curious about her parents; she'd never talked much about them. Then again, I'd never talked about mine, other than to say they were divorced and still lived in Ann Arbor. But given Santana's sudden shift and the discomfort I was feeling, I didn't think now was a good time to talk about family.

I decided to cut my losses and go home. She was coming to Justine's party, so I knew I'd see her in a few hours.

"I guess I'll go home and rest before the party," I said, trying to convey my disappointment and uncertainty.

She made eye contact for the first time in a few minutes and gave me a terse smile. "Have fun," she said, making no move to allay my discomfort.

"See you tonight," I said, sounding even sadder.

"See you tonight," she echoed, turning back to her laundry.

I left her apartment and walked heavily back to my apartment.

What the hell was her deal?

Justine had just gotten home and was bustling around in the kitchen getting ready for the party.

"Hey," I said, trying to perk up and be pleasant to my roommate.

"Hey," she said. "I have a bone to pick with you, missy."

"Okay..." I said, bracing myself for a complaint about leaving my hair in the drain or not doing the dishes on time or sneaking some of her favorite bodywash.

"What's going on with you and Santana?" she asked, standing up straight and keeping her hand on the refrigerator.

Startled by her confrontation and unsure what to say, I shrugged, buying myself time. "We're just seeing where it goes."

Justine tilted her chin and gave me a dubious expression. "Britt," she warned.

"I don't know," I admitted. "She's confusing."

"You guys are fucking, right?"

Startled, I looked away. "Yes," I said, suddenly ashamed. I had never been ashamed of sleeping with someone before, but Justine's disapproving expression was overwhelming.

"Are you dating?"

"I think so," I said.

"You _think_ so."

I sighed. "Look, I know it's not the best situation. But she's been really sweet, and I don't want to be too needy."

Justine squinted even further. "There's a difference between being needy and knowing what's going on," she said. She turned back to the fridge and sighed. "I don't want you to get hurt, Britt. I like Santana so far, but I'd like her more if she woke up and saw how great you are."

"She sees," I said.

Justine glanced up at me, and I doubted myself.

"I mean, I think she does."

Justine quietly put away groceries for a minute before she turned back to me, gentle. "Will you do one thing for me?"

Hesitant, I nodded.

"I know you hate confrontation, but you need to get some definition. Talk to her."

"I don't wanna do that," I mumbled.

"I know," Justine said, rolling her reusable grocery bags up into a ball. "But if you don't do it, I will."

Horrified by the thought of Justine confronting Santana about our relationship, I blurted, "Okay, I'll talk to her."

Justine looked up at me with a doubtful expression.

"I will," I assured her. "Just let me wait until after your party"

"Two days," Justine said. "That's it. Then I'm going over there and demanding she state her intentions with my best friend."

Feeling anxiety and dread sneak up on me from multiple angles, I retreated to my room and cleaned out my closet.

* * *

x

* * *

I had been so relieved and happy about the way Santana had agreed to wait to have sex, I felt the urge to do something extra sweet for her. Remembering the bouquet she'd sent me at work, I decided I wanted to bring her flowers on our next date.

It felt a bit odd to pick up my date by taking the bus, but it was what I had to work with. I took the bus to Santana's house in the Presidio, stopping at a flower stand on the way. As I looked over the buckets of flowers, I realized I had never bought flowers for someone I liked. Suddenly it seemed too important. I should have researched what kind of flowers to get her. I knew certain color roses meant certain things, but I didn't know which was which.

I glanced at the man running the booth, hoping for guidance. I supposed that he didn't think a girl would need help picking flowers. It was men who needed help with romance, right?

Sadly, I needed help, so I timidly asked for it.

"What do the different rose colors mean?" I asked.

"Who are they for?"

"They're for- um - for my date."

The man stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Guys don't care about that stuff," he said with a shrug. "Get whatever color you want."

I debated correcting him, telling him my date was a woman, but I didn't feel comfortable. What business did a corner florist have knowing who I was taking out tonight?

Discouraged, I nodded and walked away.

I pulled out my phone and Googled _rose color meanings_. After scanning through, I still couldn't decide. Indecisiveness will probably be my downfall.

But then again, once I had decided to date Santana, I hadn't questioned that decision at all.

I texted Justine and asked for her opinion, and she told me to go right for red, followed by a winky face. But I wasn't ready for that, so I chose an arrangement of white and peach roses. I paid, avoiding eye contact with the salesman, and walked to Santana's apartment.

Santana looked exceptionally beautiful tonight. Her hair was perfectly styled and her eyes were extra sparkly. Most breathtakingly, she was wearing a red, satin shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of cleavage as the rest of the garment clung to her waist and shoulders. I almost couldn't breathe. I settled for holding the flowers forward, wishing I'd picked something more creative than plain roses.

"Oh gosh," she said, beaming. "How sweet!"

I gave a bashful shrug. "Not as sweet as the flowers you sent me."

Her eyebrows pinched together delicately as she quirked her head. "I didn't send you flowers."

Confused, I bit my lip. I'd thought Santana had just been playing coy when she pretended not to know about the flowers the first time.

"You didn't?"

Santana shook her head. "Should I be worried?" she asked, feigning protectiveness. It reminded me of the cute way she'd asked to date each other exclusively, which made me happy.

"No," I said. "But now I'm wondering who sent them."

Santana looked at the roses I'd given her for a moment before saying, "Well now I'll just have to send something even more impressive so everyone knows you're taken."

Blushing, I said, "No, no, you don't need to do that."

Santana smiled and set the flowers down, ushering me into her apartment. I stepped inside, she closed the door, and immediately put her hand on the side of my head, bringing me in for a kiss.

And then another.

And another.

Gosh, I loved kissing her so much.

After a moment of playful kissing, it grew more intense and I felt my breathing pick up.

As though she knew we needed to leave now if we were going to make our dinner reservation, she pulled back and sighed. "Let me put these in water and then we'll head out."

Grinning like a fool, I nodded and waited while she went into her kitchen.

Santana took me to a beautiful restaurant on top of a hotel. The view was amazing out the panoramic windows. Tables with starched white cloths, candles, and flowers filled the dim space. At first glance, it was a normal, romantic restaurant, but as we waited to be seated, I realized the floor was slowly rotating. I took Santana's hand and gasped, excited. She looked at me with a sneaky, happy smile, and put her hand over mine and squeezed. "I thought you might like this place," she murmured. I nodded and looked out the windows in awe as we were led to our seats. We sat down, and I realized I was going to have a very hard time paying attention to my food. Between Santana and the beautiful, slowly changing view, I wouldn't know where to look.

The food was delicious, and like usual, Santana picked a nice bottle of wine for us to share. We topped our meal off with a shared slice of chocolate cake, and I was reluctant to leave. But then I remembered I'd get to kiss her some more at her house and had no trouble getting into the elevator to be taken back to her car.

Half an hour later we were sprawled on her couch, faces mashed together, limbs clinging to each other. I loved kissing her so much, and I was more comfortable with her hands roaming over my body now. I loved exploring her body too. I let my mouth trail down her neck, past the collar of her sexy red shirt, and slid my tongue out to taste the skin between her breasts.

Santana was quivering in frustration. She gasped and pushed my head away, a pained smile on her face. She took a deep breath through her nose, biting her lips.

I realized I'd gone too far and felt guilty. I could almost hear a muffled voice in her chest, begging for sex.

"I'm sorry," I said.

I wasn't sorry that I wasn't ready to sleep with her, but I was sorry it was so hard for her. And also sorry that I had gotten her worked up with no intention of following through. I was still learning to walk that line.

"It's okay," she muttered, biting her lips and keeping her eyes closed as she winced.

She was trying to tell herself it was okay, even though she was frustrated. She sighed again and her eyes flashed as she opened them. And even though she was frustrated, the voice she spoke with was soft and genuine. "It's just hard to not be intimate with you because you're so sexy and I like you so much."

Sitting up and adjusting myself so I wasn't completely on top of her, I realized that she didn't understand why I didn't want to have sex.

"What makes you think we can't be intimate?" I asked, trying to be playful and soft at the same time.

"Isn't that the point?" she asked, sitting up.

I shook my head slowly back and forth.

Her brow crinkled in confusion, and I realized she didn't differentiate between sex and intimacy.

I shuffled closer to her on the couch again and ran my finger over her wrist. "We can be intimate like this," I said, staring deep into the pit of her, daring her to look away.

She didn't.

She swallowed as I traced my finger over her hand and played with her fingers. I felt her sink into the blissful fear I felt every time I was around her.

"How?"

I gave her a gentle smile to reassure her. We were venturing into this together.

"Tell me something about you. Something I don't already know," I said.

She gave me a soft smile, and I saw her lips were raw from kissing.

"Something about kissing," I added. "Maybe... your first kiss."

She grinned. "It was during a game of Truth or Dare on the playground in fourth grade. His name was Cameron. He used to make me mix tapes."

I leaned my head into the cushion of the couch, relaxing into her story.

"Any good?"

"The kiss or the mix tapes?"

"Both."

"They were _terrible_," she giggled. "He would put a Counting Crows next to Mozart next to Backstreet Boys. And he used way too much tongue."

"Wow, he _really_ liked you," I grinned.

"One of many boys whose heart I broke before I got started with full time ladykilling."

I let myself imagine a younger, less sure Santana, and felt myself warm. I had seen flashes of uncertainty in her eyes a few times, but nothing like what she must have been like as a teen.

"When did you start?" I asked.

"Ladykilling?"

I nodded, basking in her glow and the cushions of her overstuffed couch.

"I was nineteen. I should have known earlier, but coming out to myself was the hardest part. But my first kiss..." She trailed off, and I saw her eyes cloud as she relived something. "My first kiss with a girl made things crystal clear."

"Who was she?" I asked, my lips feeling drawn back to her, wanting to stake their claim. But I resisted because I wanted to hear her story.

"She was my college roommate," Santana said, as though it was both tragic and amusing. "Her name was Andrea. She came home drunk one night and I was standing there folding laundry, and she laid a wet one on me."

I was riveted, as though we had reached the climax of a suspenseful movie and she had paused it. Hearing Santana recount her earliest experience of her sexuality - well, perhaps not the earliest, but most significant - felt like being granted access to a part of her that she reserved for special people.

"What did you do?" I asked.

"I kissed her back."

A little smile passed over her face, and I realized that in a secret way, she was proud of herself. It must have taken all the courage she possessed to kiss Andrea back.

"And then what happened?" I asked. She was baiting me, making me buy into her story more and more. I could feel the lure towing me in, knowing the best part was coming.

"Everything," she said. She kept smiling, but more solemnly, as though she knew she was approaching a boundary I had hammered into place.

I was grateful she didn't go into more detail. I didn't want to hear about her in bed with another girl. Even though I wasn't ready to sleep with her, I didn't like thinking about other people touching her.

But then she started telling me her coming out story, which saddened me and deepened my respect for her.

"After Andrea and I hooked up, I made the mistake of running to my friend Isaiah. I was so freaked out about what had happened, I slept with him. Which I _really_ shouldn't have done. Andrea found out and flipped her shit. She told all my friends I was gay... and then she told my parents."

My eyebrows shot up, imagining the wrath that Santana must have incurred on Andrea for such a vindictive outing.

"Oh my god," I gasped. "What did you do?"

Santana gave a shrug. "There wasn't much I could do. After a year of working my ass off, I dropped out of college and went to journalism school. I wanted to get away from everyone there, and I figured I didn't need to finish my B.A. when I already knew I wanted to be a journalist. So I applied for every scholarship under the sun and got a full ride to Columbia. Once I was there, it was much easier to figure myself out. I had my first real relationship with a girl and made great queer friends. After a while I was able to let what happened with Andrea go."

I barely stopped myself before I blurted, _God you are so hot right now,_ but I managed to bite my tongue. I didn't want to derail the conversation or miss any of the details she was giving me about her life. I settled for giving her a tame kiss on the lips and following it with a smile I hoped she knew was fueled by admiration.

I really, truly admired her, and appreciated her willingness to be vulnerable with me.

By not sleeping with her while I was falling for her, I was discovering the two things didn't have to go together. There were no rules. And although my body would have reveled in the satisfaction of whatever touches she could have given me that night, hearing her story and watching her heart open like a flower was too beautiful to miss.

She stayed open like that, letting the energy hang in the air for a moment, letting me bask in the feeling of being given a piece of her.

Then one side of her mouth curled up in a smile. "What about you?" she asked. "When did you start ladykilling? That girl in college?"

"Maggie," I said, nodding. "It was just a couple months, though."

"Tell me," she said, warm and inviting.

I took a deep breath. "I was about a year out of a serious relationship," I began.

"With who?" Santana asked.

"My high school boyfriend," I mumbled, trying to avoid talking about him. "I met Maggie in my Evolutionary Neuroscience class."

"Did she make your neurons fire like crazy?" Santana asked with a smug grin.

I giggled at her science nerd joke. "Something like that. She was real pretty."

"Couldn't have been as pretty as you," Santana said. Sometimes the way she flirted with me bordered on aggressive.

I tried to dismiss my blush. She told me I was pretty so often, I was starting to believe it. She even pointed out when other people noticed I was pretty, like on the bus or in line at the movies. _The guy behind you is totally checking out your ass_, she'd whisper in my ear. I'd burn and smile and she'd throw a smug glance at the guy as her arm slipped around my waist and she planted a kiss on my cheek. At first it had been alarming for her to be so affectionate with me in public, but I had come to love it, as long as she didn't get too out of hand. Hugging and brief kisses that claimed me as hers made me feel like I was floating, like Charlie when he drank the floating soda in Willy Wonka. But anything more would have made me squirm.

I realized I had gotten distracted when Santana's eyebrows arched and she smiled, entertained by my moment of dead air.

I continued with my story about Maggie.

"She kept asking to borrow a pen every class, and then we started talking, and one night we were studying for our midterm and she asked if I'd ever dated a girl."

"To which you said..."

"I said I hadn't, but I thought girls were beautiful and I'd totally be open to it."

"Oh man... she must have died of happiness."

I smiled, remembered how Maggie's body had suddenly attuned to me as she set her book on the floor beside her. "So then she asked if it would be okay to kiss me, and I said yes. And that was that."

"How long did you date?"

"A few months," I said, shrugging. "It was fun."

"Did you love her?"

I shook my head. I'd liked Maggie and I thought she was beautiful, but I wasn't attached to her. I couldn't have at the time. My heart wasn't ready. "She was great, but it didn't have that magic element to it, you know?"

Santana's eyes bored into me as she murmured, "Yeah."

There was a moment of precarious silence as I felt my insides squirm, realizing I had just driven us to a point of verbally acknowledging how much potential we had. That would have been great if I'd been ready to admit that. But I wasn't.

Don't get me wrong, I was excited about dating Santana. But I wasn't ready to open up about how excited I was. It felt too vulnerable. Kind of like how the idea of having sex felt too vulnerable.

I took a deep breath, reminding myself I had time to unfold for her. I didn't have to do it all at once. She was patient and kind and willing to go first in so many ways. Maybe that's why she felt safe enough for me to entertain the idea of loving in the first place.

My heart raced as I even thought the word.

_Loving_.

I needed to ground myself back in reality where things don't work out and love is disappointing and goes stale. I shook myself out of the trance Santana had locked me into and sighed. "So yeah, we dated for a few months, and then we just kind of fizzled out. She had the decency to make it official though. That was nice of her."

Santana pursed her lips, still halfway in her trance. "I can't imagine you ever fizzling," she said, frowning.

I cocked my head, curious what she meant.

She understood without me asking. "I mean, you're just so full of life and excitement and humor. It would take a force of nature to knock that out of you."

I was stunned she thought of me as anything near vivacious. As someone who identified with my starched lab coat and the predictable bun in my hair and the drone of the air vents above my desk, it was curious to me that Santana knew I had once held so much life. She didn't even need a microscope to see.

And then I realized that she was indirectly asking if something had happened that had knocked my carbonation out. She believed someone had hurt me or knocked me down, and that was the only explanation she could think of for me not being bubbly.

"I guess," I said, pushing away memories of why I'd fizzled. "But I think Maggie just wasn't the right person."

At that Santana backed off, adjusting herself on the couch. "Sucks to be her," she said, looking into her wine glass with a coy smile.

And that little smile told me that, for whatever reason, she felt lucky to be dating me. Her subtlety was appreciated, since bluntness scared me. I wanted to let her know I appreciated her gentleness.

"I'm happy to be dating you," I said, quiet and shy.

She lowered her wine glass and looked at me with a smile that was unguarded and free. She held my gaze for a moment before she murmured, "I'm really happy to be dating you too."

She sat there looking at me as if the light was falling on my face in a way she had never seen before. I felt a blush rise and I made a quick silly face, trying to lighten the mood and relieve some of the obtrusive heaviness of the intimacy I'd forced on us. Now I was squirming under it, while she seemed to bask in it.

Then, without saying anything, she leaned forward and placed a soft, innocent kiss on my lips. It felt like a resolution, a promise that she wouldn't push me to do anything until I was ready. I didn't feel like I was squirming anymore. I just felt soft inside.

As she drew away, I followed her, laying my head on her shoulder in thanks. She took my hand and studied my knuckles, the tip of her index finger brushing the sensitive spots between my fingers.

"I like this," she murmured. Her fingers danced soft over the back of my hand.

I snuggled closer to her, feeling her chest rise with her breath and soaking in the warmth that seeped through her clothes.

"Me too," I said, my words mumbled from being soaked in her for so long.

"When can I see you again?" she asked.

I looked at the patterns she was tracing into my skin, feeling as though every tiny hair was rising to meet her, electric with the faintness of her touch. My skin was practically tingling.

I wanted to say, _Right now. You can see me again right now._ But it was almost two in the morning, and sleep was hovering over me. I needed to sleep in my own bed or risk shattering the magic that was happening because we weren't having sex yet. There was something shimmering between us that I didn't think would last if we tried to extend it until dawn. I wanted to protect it as long as I could.

"Tomorrow," I said, smiling at the way Santana's heart beat stronger against my ear at the word. "Let's do something special."

"Like what?" she asked, her tone of voice indicating she would agree to almost anything.

I paused, thinking of how I wanted to keep learning about her and understanding her in ways that were deeper than her skin. "Surprise me," I said. "Take me somewhere you love."

I heard her smile above me.

"And next weekend I'll take you somewhere _I_ love," I offered.

She tilted her mouth into my hair and left a kiss there, agreeing without words.

After a few minutes we got up, reluctant.

She gave me a soft, sleepy kiss at the door, eyelids drooping with tiredness and warmth. Her whole body was slack. I held her for a minute before thanking her. Realizing I would have to walk to the bus to get home, she picked up her keys and insisted I drive her car home. We'd be seeing each other in the morning anyway, and this way I'd get more sleep. Warm with her affection, I kissed her one more time before walking down to her car. The cold night air woke me up enough to drive. As I started the engine, I looked up and saw her smiling down at me from her window. When she saw me looking at her, she waved, as though she would wait at the window until I returned in the morning.

* * *

x

* * *

As I clacked down the stairs of Dr. Turner's apartment and stomped out onto the street, my anger melted and I was gripped with icy, painful fear and betrayal. I couldn't believe I'd trusted Dr. Turner to be the nice guy I wanted him to be. I had never hated someone so intensely in my whole life. Dr. Turner had crossed a boundary I had never imagined he would.

I knew that occasionally customers snuck cameras into the booths at Jez, but the security guards usually managed to wrestle them from their hands, and my face was disguised enough there that I was pretty sure no one would recognize me if the pictures ended up online. Not that it didn't make me nervous. Of course it did.

But I didn't have relationships with those men. Those men were dirt beneath my Ellies. Dr. Turner was someone I knew and trusted to be better than that. I had foolishly thought that because we were doing something illegal together, he would follow the guidelines I'd laid out.

I slumped under the weight of my mistake, starting to cry as I rounded the corner. All my anger at Dr. Turner suddenly turned on myself as I realized I had no one to blame but me. I had done something stupid and now it was catching up to me.

As my crying became harder to keep quiet, I was grateful for the car I'd purchased two weeks earlier. Aside from constant trouble parking, it was much easier to get around.

But now that my income had been suddenly halved , I wondered if I should take the car back to the dealership and cut my losses.

I crawled into the driver's seat, locked the doors, and slumped down, letting myself cry for a minute. I was glad it was dark and no passersby could see me. I sobbed and sobbed, makeup running down my face until I looked like a raccoon. How had I gotten here? How had the smart, good girl from Ann Arbor ended up in San Francisco wearing cheap, tacky lingerie, crying her whore makeup off in a new BMW after having sex for money? I didn't even recognize myself.

After the loudest of the crying had run through me, I took deep, desperate breaths of leather-scented air. I couldn't go home to Justine. She'd know immediately that something bad had happened. I would have loved nothing more than to let her protectiveness wrap me up. But she knew who my client was, and I couldn't risk her directing her best-friend wrath at Dr. Turner when there was a possibility that he had other footage of me. If she confronted him, he could ruin my life, even if I had threatened him with the footage now stuffed in my purse alongside my condoms, lube, and babywipes.

No, I couldn't tell Justine what had happened. She would explode.

I thought about calling Callie. She knew about my "side job" and she would understand. But she always worked the Booth on Saturday nights and wouldn't be able to talk until four in the morning.

I needed to talk _now_.

For a brief moment I debated calling Kimi, telling her she'd been right to worry about me and admitting how dumb I was and that I should have tried to get a job in my field. But even if I was willing to sacrifice that much pride, I couldn't bring myself to call her so late, since it was already two in the morning in New York.

I realized just how alone I was and started crying harder.

I had no one to call.

I took out my phone to scroll through my contacts just in case I'd forgotten someone who might lend a sympathetic ear. I had Cassie's number, but she'd probably cluck her tongue and tell me it was rough, but it happened and there was no use crying over it. I didn't want to hear that from someone in the industry, and there was no one else at work that I was open with about my prostitution.

As I clicked my phone on, I saw there were a few text messages from Santana. Comforted by the reminder of her friendship, I looked at the picture she'd just texted me of Schro, fast asleep in front of her door with a message that said, _I want to go out and get a slice of pizza, but Schro thinks I should stay home and have tuna salad instead._

I smiled at the picture, feeling my face strain in its puffiness. Santana's life was so simple. She went to class, did her homework, played with her cat, hung out with me, and spent time with her boyfriend. I wished my life could be like that for just a day. That sounded really, really nice.

I looked at the timestamp and saw that Santana had just sent those messages ten minutes ago. Clearly she was awake and not planning to go to bed soon if she was thinking about going out for food. Desperate for someone to talk to, I called her and felt my heart race as the phone rang. Could I really tell her what had happened?

She answered right away, her sweet little voice cheerful as she said, "Hey!"

I sniffled and tried to mirror her happiness as I said, "Hey."

"Are you okay?" she asked right away, sensing my upset.

I sniffled again. "Not really," I admitted. I always tried to be strong and in control around her to help ease her ever-present anxiety, but there was no way I could do that right now.

"Did something happen?"

I tried to catch my breath, hoping I didn't sound too soggy as I dodged the question. "I had a really bad night," I said.

"Oh no..." Santana cooed. "Do you want to come over and talk about it?"

Surprised by her immediate offer but instantly relieved, I said, "Yeah."

"Okay. I'll wake Schro up so he can give you some snuggles."

Somehow, offering to share her cat with me was the perfect thing to say.

"Okay."

I drove to Santana's house feeling oddly blank as I navigated the familiar streets in my flashy new car. The car felt in stark contrast to everything about me; it was stately, well-engineered, and commanded authority, while I felt faulty and cheap. I didn't deserve to be maneuvering such a fine piece of machinery.

Santana met me at her gate and used her quietest, sweetest voice as she ushered me upstairs. She sat me on her bed, immediately handing me a cup of hot herbal tea and placing Schro next to me. He nuzzled my knee and I was suddenly overwhelmed with guilt and anger again. It was as if that soft nudge of his kitty nose reminded me of my own fragility. I started to cry and realized I hadn't even wiped my makeup off. Santana was seeing me with my awful whore makeup running down my face and she was kind enough not to comment on it.

I started crying harder, burying my face in my hand, unable to tell her what had happened. Santana wouldn't know what to say if I told her the truth. She would be overwhelmed.

She put her hand on my knee and I had the urge to fling it off. I didn't want her to touch me while I was in the clothes I'd worn to Turner's. I didn't want to be wearing them at all. They made me feel cheap and for the first time, dirty. But I couldn't be so rude as to push her away when she was being kind and patient with me. So instead, I managed to squeak out, "Can I please take a shower?"

"Of _course_," Santana said, as though I had asked if I could breathe the air in her apartment. "I'll get you my favorite lotion to use afterwards." She brushed my arm for a minute before she paused. "You don't have to tell me what happened, but... are you... hurt?"

Knowing she was asking if I'd been assaulted, I shook my head in my hand. I hadn't been assaulted. At least not physically.

"Okay." She squeezed my arm and got up, retrieving a clean towel for me. She put it next to me. "Let me know if you need anything else."

Taking deep breaths to calm myself down, I muttered an exhausted _Thank you_ and asked if it would be too much trouble to borrow a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. She assured me it was no trouble at all and handed me some clothes.

After I'd scrubbed myself pink and sedated myself with hot steam, I shut off the shower and slowly spread lotion over my body as though it could give me new skin. I got dressed in the soft pants and t-shirt Santana had loaned me, not bothering with underwear. There was no way I was putting my lingerie back on. I debated throwing it away, but I didn't want Santana to see it when she took out the trash.

I emerged, glad to have shed my costume so I could sit with Santana like a normal girl. But tonight, for the first time, I didn't feel like a normal girl. Despite being in Santana's casual clothes, part of me was still Violet. I started to wonder if she had overtaken me without my realizing it.

Santana looked up from where she was typing at her desk. "Feel better?" she asked, her voice soft and warm like the steam billowing out of her little bathroom.

I nodded, feeling my body droop with exhaustion.

"Do you want to sleep? Or eat? Or watch a movie?"

I looked around, at a loss for what I wanted to do. What I wanted to do was erase my decisions for the past eight months. But that wasn't an option. So I shrugged. "I should probably eat something."

Santana nodded, her forehead creased with concern. "Want me to order a pizza?"

Relieved to not have to decide anything, I nodded, walking towards the bed. I had never done more than sit on it, but it was the most inviting part of her room right now. I didn't even hesitate as I pulled back the covers and slid into it. I felt bad that my wet hair was getting her pillow wet, so I got back up and retrieved a dry hand towel and put it under my head.

"Comfy?" Santana asked, her face hopeful.

I nodded and adjusted the towel-covered pillow under my head. I knew I was being a bit rude by just crawling into her bed, but it was the safest place I could think of. Dr. Turner didn't know where Santana lived, but he knew where I lived. I'd been stupid enough to give him my address when I thought we were going on a date the first night he paid me for sex.

I remembered what an idiot I'd felt like that first night when I saw the wad of money on his sheets. I wished I'd let that feeling prevail, leaving his dirty money on the bedspread and never talking to him again.

I sniffled a little bit as I got comfortable, but then felt the silence start to press down on me. Santana had turned back to her computer and was typing. Hadn't she said she was going to order a pizza?

"Want me to call the order in?" I offered.

"I'm doing it right now," she said, pointing to the computer. "I only order from places that have an online ordering option. I don't like the phone."

I nodded, but then realized she'd answered the phone when I had called. "You picked up when I called."

She turned and gave me a soft smile. "I know you already." Then she turned back to her computer and clicked for a minute.

Wanting to understand Santana's phone phobia, not to mention think about anything besides what had happened with Dr. Turner, I cleared my throat and asked how her day had been.

"Oh, it was fine," she said. "Schro helped me with an assignment and Isaiah took me out to lunch."

"Why aren't you out with him right now?" I asked, remembering that Santana usually spent Saturday nights with her boyfriend.

"He's doing a guy's night out thing tonight," she said. "Besides, our anniversary is coming up in a few weeks so we're trying to save up to do something nice."

"How long have you been together?" I asked, grateful for casual, nonthreatening conversation .

"Five years," Santana said, her voice seeming even more quiet. She looked at me with a timid smile, as though she were subtly proud and bashful about her impressively long relationship with what must have been her college sweetheart.

And yet I remembered her uncertainty about her future with him and gave her a muted smile in return. "That's a long time," I said, trying to keep her engaged as she turned back to her computer. "Hey, use my credit card," I said. "Let me pay."

I sat up and reached for my purse, feeling my stomach tense when I saw my Dr. Turner's video camera tucked next to my wallet.

"It's okay," Santana said. "My card is already on file. You had a rough night."

She hit return with a firm poke of her finger and waited for a confirmation screen to pop up before she closed her laptop and turned back to me. My face must have betrayed how I felt.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" she asked. She was such a gentle person, my anxiety rose only a fraction of the way it would have if Justine had asked.

I debated not telling her, or telling her in vague words. But she was so sweet and willing to help and I really needed someone to help me.

I took a deep breath, folding my hands in my lap and ducking my head.

"You know how I have that private client?" I asked.

"Uh huh," Santana said.

Somehow even that murmur was encouraging.

"We have rules and limits we set together and he's always been really good about honoring them."

"What kind of rules?" Santana asked. Her pure curiosity was easy to appease.

"Rules about protection and testing, sobriety, and what I will and won't do." I would have gone into more detail, but I didn't know if talking about specific sex acts would spook Santana.

"Good for you," she said. "I hope it makes him see that you're a real person." Then her eyes went wide, worried that she'd offended me. "I mean, I didn't mean that— I just meant that some people are really awful about—"

"I know what you meant," I said gently, straining to smile at her.

She sighed in relief and waited for me to continue.

"So tonight I went to his house like usual. It was a little different, but nothing alarming."

I let my mind flicker back to the way Dr. Turner had asked me to stay in the living room, the way his hands had sunk into my ass, rooting me directly in front of the camera. I felt tears and anger clutch at my throat. I tried to fight it off, but my eyes watered and I winced. I wasn't sure I could get the words out.

"Afterwards I was- I was getting dressed and I looked at his- his bookshelf… and…"

Fear and anger rushed through me again as I remembered seeing the camera and I dropped my head in my hands. I sat there crying for a painfully long time while Santana sat completely still in her chair.

Knowing I wouldn't be able to get the words out, I reached into my purse and pulled out the video camera, keeping my head bent so I couldn't see her expression when she registered what I was saying.

I heard her gasp and move in her chair. Then the bed shifted next to me and she put her arm around me.

"Brittany, I'm so, so sorry. That was a dick move on his part."

Surprised and comforted by Santana's use of the phrase _dick move_, I nodded and inhaled shakily, lifting my head to look her in the eyes. She looked pained, as though she truly understood how betrayed I felt.

"I never thought he'd do something like that," I squeaked. "But mostly I just feel—so _stupid_ for trusting him."

Santana shifted and put her arm around my back. "Britt, him being an asshole has nothing to do with your intelligence."

I couldn't believe how gentle and understanding Santana was being. No one was ever sympathetic to strippers and prostitutes.

I leaned into her, putting my head on her shoulder, feeling her warmth soak into me. As though taking his cue from Santana, Schrodinger hopped on the bed and curled up against my thigh, nuzzling me. I started to feel more like Brittany and less like Violet as I rested there, sniffling.

"Men are so gross," I said, running a hand under my nose. "I hate them so much."

Santana squeezed around my waist briefly and said, "Good thing you like girls, too."

Desperate to relieve the tension in my body and mind, I laughed, though it came out soggy. "Good thing," I echoed.

I sank deeper into Santana's shoulder and let my hand absentmindedly run over Schrodinger's back, feeling his purring vibrate inside him. Given the situation, I was about as calm as I could hope to be. I loved being around Santana and her sweet little cat. It was simple and calm.

"What are you going to do with the footage?" Santana asked.

I shrugged, heavy. "I would destroy it, but I want to keep it just in case he tries to blackmail me or something."

Santana nodded, as though I were being wise

"It's digital, right?" she asked, pointing to the camera.

I turned it over in my lap, noting that it was.

"I have an idea that might make you feel better," she said, her voice growing hesitantly playful.

"What?"

She held out her hand, wanting me to hand her the camera. I was cautious about giving anyone access to the home-made porn I'd unknowingly made, but I doubted Santana wanted to see it. I let her take the camera and watched as she turned the it over until she found the slot for the memory card. She ejected it and handed the tiny plastic disk to me.

"Keep that somewhere safe," she said. "Now- if you want - we can go smash the shit out of this," she said, shaking the camera in her hand.

At the suggestion, I felt something drag my anger up from where it was buried under my fear and self-loathing. It was energizing, which was a relief. I laughed, invigorated at the prospect of watching Dr. Turner's camera be obliterated at my hand.

"Oh my god," I said, still giggling with relief.

"Would that make you feel better?" she asked, smiling.

"I'm pretty sure it would."

"Good," Santana chirped. "You can imagine his face on it if you want." She paused. "Or his dick. Whatever works."

Surprised again by her coy malice, I laughed and wiped my nose again. "Okay."

Excited that we were going to destroy an expensive video camera together, Santana squeezed my waist again before getting up.

"What should we smash it with?" she said. "I have a hammer, but we could also use a stiletto, or a brick, or…"

"Drive over it with my car," I said, spurred on by her surprising wickedness. I had bought my car with money I'd earned from Dr. Turner, and Santana knew that.

"Perfect!" she cheered.

I loved this side of Santana. It was unexpected and surprisingly sexy.

She got up and put on her shoes, turning back to beckon me out the door.

I tucked the memory chip into my wallet and borrowed a pair of flip flops before running down the stairs behind her, keys jangling in my hand.

Once we were out on the sidewalk, she held the camera up towards me in both hands, as though presenting a sacrifice.

Unsure what I wanted my first move to be, I hesitantly reached for it, pausing halfway before seizing it and hurling it down the sidewalk, listening to the satisfying way it skidded on the pavement.

And because it was the only way I knew to release all my anger, I yelled after it, "_Fuck you, Turner!_" at the top of my lungs.

Santana laughed and held her hands up to her mouth, glancing at the windows above us to see if we'd disturbed anyone. But she must have decided she didn't care, because she ran after the camera and retrieved it, holding it up to me again. I hurled it again, growling as I watched it bounce and a corner shatter off. Santana retrieved it for me to throw a few more times, until it was dented and warped beyond repair. Then I placed it under my front left tire, unlocking the doors and getting in. I rolled down the passenger window and said, "Get in!" For some reason I really, really wanted Santana to be in the car with me when I gave the camera its lethal treatment.

Santana hopped in the passenger seat and grabbed my hand, holding it over the gear shift. I started the car and together we put the car in gear before I let it roll forward, listening to the satisfying pops and crunches coming from the tire closest to me.

"Woohoo!" Santana whooped, clutching at my hand when I backed over the camera for good measure.

Then I put the car in park and turned it off, feeling myself come down from my angry, vindictive high. Though I couldn't erase what Dr. Turner had done, I felt a million times better than when I'd left his house.

I looked at Santana and was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude. She was such a good friend, even if we were still getting to know each other. She took time to understand things that confused or scared her. Not many people were like that.

She held my gaze, her smile turning gentle and innocent again, and I realized with a jolt that I was attracted to her.

Fuck.

Why hadn't I realized it before? I knew she had nice tits and a beautiful face and that her mind was one of the best parts about her, but I hadn't put all the pieces together until now.

I felt dread creeping up on me again, and it had nothing to do with my work.

Maybe I was unsettled because it was a strange time to realize I was interested in Santana as more than a friend. But as we sat there, suspended in our post-destruction haze, I realized I was unsettled because I knew Santana was off-limits. Not only was she straight, she had a boyfriend she'd been with for five years, who, regardless of her uncertainly, adored her to no end and wouldn't want someone like me coming near her.

With both of my jobs, I had learned how important boundaries were. Customers stayed behind glass, fingers stayed on the outer vulva, and girls who were taken were off-limits no matter how beautiful they were. I knew I had to enforce rigid boundaries with myself around Santana now, which was going to take constant effort. I was already so drained, the task seemed impossible.

After what felt like an hour of staring into her dark, shiny eyes, she said quietly, "I think our pizza will be here soon. Are you feeling better?"

Not trusting myself to speak, I nodded and tore my gaze away. I pulled my keys out of the ignition and followed her back into her house. Needing something to do, I picked up Schrodinger and snuggled him into my lap, talking to him with the same babytalk voice Santana used with him. I was relieved when the pizza came and I had something else to focus on.

We chewed quietly, and she asked if I had to work the next day. Heavy with the reminder that I would once again be on display for people who might take advantage of me, I nodded and let my shoulders droop to convey my dread.

Santana scrunched her nose in sympathy. "Could you take a few days off?"

I shrugged. "I could. I'm about due for a vacation. But seeing as my income was just slashed in half, I don't think I should. At least not until I figure out what I'm going to do with my car."

Santana nodded and gave me a gentle pout before taking another bite of her pizza. We chewed quietly and I felt the pressure of my work creeping up on me. I didn't want to go home and let it take over.

As though she could read my thoughts, Santana said, "You're welcome to stay here if you don't want to go home."

Seeing as I had already made myself at home in Santana's bed once that night, my impulse was to gratefully accept her offer. I didn't want to go home. But now that I realized I was attracted to her, I knew I couldn't stay the night. Boundaries were what kept me safe at work, and adhering to them in my personal life was bound to keep me safe too. If someone as removed from my feelings as Dr. Turner could have such an intense impact on me, I didn't want to think about what someone like Santana could do.

So even though it pained me to do so, I declined, giving Santana a brief, low-contact hug as I left. As I trudged down the stairs to my car, I was overwhelmed with exhaustion and the fear that I would never get a break from the blows of the world.


	10. Hey, Jealousy

A/N: Are you guys feeling spoiled by weekly updates yet? This city seems to have no shortage of inspiration, so that's probably why. I hope I can keep it going, but no promises. Thank you to JJ who often gives me the perfect piece of feedback that makes everything click. I think the secret to success is surrounding myself with smart, creative people, and she is both a genius and a master craftswoman.

* * *

**Chapter 10: Hey, Jealousy**

* * *

So here's what you missed on Dandelion: Bar!Britt and Bar!Santana are sleeping together again, but when Britt asked Santana out, Santana got all weird and said no, which made the fact that Justine's birthday party is coming up kind of awkward. Lab!Britt and Lab!Santana are still not having sex even though they're totally smitten with each other, and when they last saw each other they had a great intimate conversation before agreeing to take each other on surprise adventures. Violet!Britt ran to Santana after finding the video camera at Turner's and Santana helped her smash the camera and did everything she could to comfort her before Brittany realized she's totally attracted to Santana, which is a bummer since Santana is straight and in a long term relationship with her boyfriend. And that's what you missed!

* * *

Our little apartment was bursting with people and food and music. Santana wasn't there yet and everyone seemed to know each other but me. I was a tiny bit jealous that Justine had so many cool friends, but then I remembered that I was her _best_ friend, and even if she had a lot of cool people, she thought I was the coolest, no matter how much of a nerd I was. That was a good feeling.

Santana was anxious when she got there. I walked her right into the kitchen where Justine's friend was pouring wine and mixing drinks. Santana took a cocktail and raised it gratefully to her lips. She took a big sip, lifting her eyebrows to give me a smile she hoped conveyed carefreeness. But the anxiety was still there. It was always there, even when it was subdued or sleeping.

She looked around, not sure where to start. She didn't know anyone, aside from me and Justine, and that would make anyone feel awkward.

"Want me to introduce you to people?" I offered.

She gave a grateful nod and let me lead her back into the living room. Even though I didn't know Justine's friends well, I knew them by name. We approached the couch where Caitlyn, Patrick, and a young man I didn't know were seated, eyes on Caitlyn's phone.

"Hey guys," I smiled. "This is... Santana," I said slowly to catch myself as I decided if I just wanted to use her name, or was going to play up the platonic act by including "my friend" before it. But I didn't want to do that because she wasn't just a friend to me. Even if she wanted to think of me as a friend, she knew we were more. Perhaps by not lying, I would help her be brave enough not to lie either.

"What's up," Patrick said, adjusting the brim of his hat as he smiled up at us. "Caitlyn's showing us pictures from her trip to Central America. You gotta see them, they're amazing," he said, gesturing to the phone. Then he fixed his eyes back on the device in Caitlyn's hand and Santana and I were left awkwardly leaning over them, unable to see or have a way to excuse ourselves politely.

Then the guy to Caitlyn's right looked up and noticed our awkward position and stood. "Here, have my seat," he offered, gesturing to where he had just been sitting. He wasn't someone I recognized, but his smile was bright and he seemed to belong amongst Justine's friends. He had on a nice pressed shirt and blue jeans.

I gestured to let Santana sit, eager to see her comfortable among the strangers in my house. She sat down, adjusting her skirt around her knees as she fixed her attention on Caitlyn's phone.

"So you're Justine's roommate?" the guy asked, focused on me.

I smiled and nodded. "Three years and counting."

"That's awesome," he said. Then he extended his hand to me, rotating his shoulder up in an exaggerated effort. "I'm Vance," he said. "I'm new."

I assumed he was referring to the nonprofit Justine and most of her friends worked for. "Welcome," I said. "Justine can't speak highly enough of the organization, so I'm sure you'll love it."

"I hope so," he said. "How long have you lived here?"

Vance went on asking me questions, never breaking eye contact as he tucked his hands in his pockets or folded his arms across his chest. His facial expressions were animated and fun to watch. I felt like I was wildly entertaining while I was talking to him. After about ten minutes of polite conversation, he offered to refill my drink. I accepted and handed him my cup, and he turned and headed for the kitchen.

Santana lurched off the couch, not making eye contact as she brushed against my shoulder and hissed, "Tell Justine happy birthday for me." She stalked toward the door, not speaking to anyone as she did.

I was confused. Why was she all icy suddenly? She'd been talking to Caitlyn and looking at pictures of Costa Rica, and now it was like I'd just offered her money for sex.

Santana tore out of the apartment like a bat out of hell, barely grabbing her jacket and purse at the door. I quickly excused myself, frantically looking for my keys. It took me a few moments to find them, and by the time I got outside, Santana was already two blocks ahead of me, powerwalking faster than Kimi in her Wall Street suit.  
"Santana, wait!" I called after her.

She looked over her shoulder but didn't slow down, almost getting plowed over by a taxi as she stepped off the curb.

"Watch where you're going, asshole!" she barked at him.

"Santana!" I called again, running after her.

She slowed but didn't turn back as she walked the remaining three blocks to her house. I finally caught up to her at her gate as she paused to pretend to not hold it open for me. I followed her up her stairs and into her apartment, bewildered by her sudden, inexplicable anger.

"Santana, what the hell is going on?" I asked, catching my breath. "What was that about?"

"You tell me, Britt," she said, turning on me.

"We were just talking to people at a party and then you freaked out."

"Talking to people? No Britt, you were talking to that douchebag. It was _embarrassing_ to watch. I have to warn you though, jealousy isn't a game I play."

"What?" I asked.

"Don't play dumb."

"I- I'm not..." I stuttered.

There was a moment of tense silence as I tried to understand why Santana was angry.

Then I realized what was wrong. I had been having a friendly conversation with Vance, and Santana had interpreted it as me flirting to make her jealous. That wasn't my intention at all. I was just being friendly.

My first impulse was to apologize and explain to Santana that she had it all wrong. But then I caught myself. Hadn't she just turned me down for a date a few hours ago? Wasn't she the one who was unwilling to acknowledge that something was going on between us?

She had no right to be upset at me until she claimed me as hers. Angry at her explosion of possessiveness, I fought back.

"If you're going to be so freaked out that I was talking to someone, then maybe you should grow a pair and _date_ me," I said, crossing my arms across my chest in challenge. "I know you don't want to deal with it, but I hate to break it to you Santana, we're not just friends. We both know that."

There. I'd said it. I'd spoken the thing I wasn't supposed to talk about. Maybe if I started doing things my way, I'd get more of what I wanted.

But Santana just scowled at me. "This isn't about me wanting to _date_ you," she spat.

I let out an exasperated sigh, letting my hands flop to my sides. "Then what is it about? Because if you're gonna freak out because I was talking to a cute guy - not even flirting, just talking- then maybe-"

"So you _did_ think he was cute," Santana said, a smug, angry expression on her face.

I was getting more exasperated. "I find lots of people attractive. Doesn't mean I'm hopping into bed with them. That's not my style." And because I couldn't resist throwing a barb back at her, I said, "Unlike you."

As soon as I said it, I knew I had lost. Santana was going to freak out and yell and we wouldn't talk for a week. That's how it was with her, right?

Preempting her explosion, I put my hand to my mouth. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."

Santana folded her arms across her chest and gave me a cool look. "You can talk to whoever you want, Britt." It sounded threatening.

I took a step toward her, wanting to repair the damage I'd done. "I'm sorry," I mumbled. "Can we just talk?"

Santana's eyes narrowed in warning and she remained rigid, arms folded under her breasts. She swallowed and said in a low, emotionless voice. "You should go back to the party. I have work to do."

Feeling slammed back by her resistance, I dropped my arms and looked at the floor. "Okay," I mumbled. "I'm sorry I got angry."

"Me too," Santana said.

But she wasn't apologizing. She was chastising me for having feelings and speaking up for what I wanted, as though another misstep would cause her to push me further away. Seeing she was in such a cold mood made it easier to walk out the door.

I stopped on the threshold, hoping I hadn't done irreparable damage. "Text me before you go to sleep?" I asked. She usually texted me goodnight when I was at work, and it made me smile to see her name on my phone at the end of my shift.

"If you like," she said.

She was still being icy, and that ice slid onto me, weighing me down as I said goodnight and walked back down the stairs.

I really, really hoped I hadn't just messed things up for good.

* * *

x

* * *

I arrived at Santana's in the morning, freshly showered and dizzy with excitement to see her and - I can't lie - kiss her some more. She opened the door and I slid right into her arms, kissing her through my smile as she wrapped her arms around my waist. She hummed into me and I kissed her with nothing held back.

But soon it got to be too much, and I didn't trust myself to stick by my resolution not to have sex with her until I was absolutely sure. If I made the decision in the moment, it could be the wrong one. I didn't want that to happen. So I pulled back, reluctant but somehow relieved.

Wanting to keep being close to her without entering into perilous sexual territory, I put my head on her shoulder, breathing in the smell of her hair and skin.

"Good morning," I mumbled.

"It is now," she replied.

I held her for a few moments until I started to sway on my feet. I pulled away, already hazy from just a few moments on her lips. "What's on the agenda today?" She hadn't told me what we were doing yet.

Santana grinned and interlocked her fingers behind my back, pressing her body into mine. "Are you up for an adventure?" she asked, playful.

"Sure."

"It's a daylong trip. Do you have plans later?"

"Kissing you."

She stumbled in her smooth flirtation and giggled. "Good."

I leaned forward and kissed her again.

"Where are we going?"

"I was thinking," she said, pausing to sweep my hair over my shoulder and run her hand up my back, "that we could drive down the coast to San Simeon."

"What's in San Simeon?"

"A special place."

"Sounds good," I said, still distracted by the wonderful smell of her skin and hair and the way her body vibrated subtly when she spoke. I started kissing her neck again.

"Okay," she said, sounding like a happy sigh as she tilted her head to give me more room to kiss her neck. "Have you," her breath hitched, "Have you eaten?"

Realizing I was nearing the line of teasing again, I backed off and stood up straight, looking her in the eyes. "I had a bagel."

"Okay. Do you need coffee or anything?"

"Nope."

"It's a long drive."

"Hope you don't get sick of me."

She leaned forward to nuzzle my nose before placing a soft kiss on my lips. "I won't." Then she patted my ass and broke away. "I'm gonna grab a coat and some snacks. Anything you want?"

"Nope."

She walked into the kitchen and brought out a bag of almonds and a bag of chips for the car ride, then took a coat out of the closet and held out her hand for her keys, which I still had from borrowing her car the night before. We walked down the stairs to her car and she opened the passenger side for me. I slid in and she carefully shut me inside.

She got into her seat and started the engine, seeming to brace herself for whatever adventures the day would bring.

"Do you like car games?" she asked when we had reached the stop sign at the end of her street.

"Who doesn't like car games?" I responded.

"Okay. What do you want to play?"

I wracked my brain for something to play. My friends in college had a game we always played, but it mostly consisted of discussing our sexual histories and fantasies, and I wasn't going to go near that powder keg with Santana. We were finally on the same page as far as our understanding of how we worked together without having sex, and I didn't want to put information out about my past that might add to her frustration. Like how I'd slept with Maggie after two weeks and Vance after three dates, but Santana and I had been dating for six weeks and hadn't even seen each other topless. Which, honestly, I would have loved. Santana had amazing boobs. I'd felt them through her shirt on several occasions, as she had mine. Hers were the perfect size for my hands, warm and supple, and when I touched them, Santana went all soft and made the sexiest breathy noises. But I felt like if I removed one article of clothing, I'd have to follow through with the rest.

Wanting to think of a good car game to play, I thought back to the night before and how much I'd adored learning more about her vulnerabilities and past. It had started when I asked her to tell me something I didn't know about her. Since that had worked, I decided to try again.

"Tell me something about you I don't know yet," I said. "Something about... breakfast," I said, thinking of the first thing that came to mind.

"Breakfast?" she asked. "Why breakfast?"

I shrugged. "It's delicious like you."

She smiled. "I love breakfast," she said. "I especially like to make pancakes and waffles with lots of toppings. I'll do it even if it's just me. I've mastered pancakes for one."

"You never made pancakes for two?"

"Of course," Santana said with a shrug. "Not for a while though."

There was a moment of silence and some of the playful tension that usually hung between us evaporated. I suppose that was an effect of indirectly asking about her exes. But part of me honestly wondered why Santana was single. Well, she wasn't single anymore. I was pretty sure she was my girlfriend. I mean, I didn't know if I could call her that, but we had agreed we weren't seeing other people, which was as close to having a girlfriend I'd been in five years.

"I like pancakes," I said, trying to steer the conversation away from her ex.

Santana put her hand on my knee and lifted one eyebrow for a second. "You should let me make you some," she said. It was rife with implication. Or at least I heard it that way until she said, "I can make pancakes for lunch or dinner or midnight snack. Just tell me when you're in the mood." A beat passed before she added, "For pancakes."

I gave her a thankful smile and nodded in agreement.

Going back to our little game of talking about silly things to diffuse sexual energy, she said, "Tell me your earliest childhood memory of pancakes."

I raised my eyebrows, as though she were presenting me with a big challenge before I remembered my earliest childhood memory of pancakes. Or at least the most prominent one. It didn't hold any of the joy I usually associated with pancakes. It was probably the saddest pancake story she'd ever heard.

"When I was nine my parents got divorced and on the first morning I woke up in my dad's new apartment, he made pancakes for me and Kimi. I couldn't eat any because I was so anxious my tummy hurt."

Santana's face shifted from playful to solemn and she bit her lip. She glanced at me with sad eyes before focusing back on the road. We approached a stoplight and she slid to a smooth stop.

I kept talking. "Mine had chocolate chips inside and Kimi's had blueberries inside. My dad burned a few so the whole apartment smelled like smoke. "

Santana studied my face for a minute before she slid her hand into mine. She didn't say anything, but that gentle handhold was better than anything she could have said. I couldn't make eye contact, but I felt safe enough to tell her a little bit more. So I told her the story of my parents' divorce.

My parents, Steve and Regina, separated when I was nine. There were no fights or affairs or big secrets that blasted our family apart. It simply broke one day, like a baked good crumbling in my nine-year-old hands.

I don't remember how they told me they were separating. I just remember the first night in my dad's new apartment, sitting on the edge of a new bed with my baby blanket pressed hard into the hollow of my stomach. It was a nice enough apartment, and I didn't think anything bad would happen to me like getting kidnapped or robbed or murdered in my sleep. But I remember sitting there and trying not to let my dad hear me cry. If he knew how sad I was, he would have been devastated. I never wanted him to feel bad because of me. So I let my blanket absorb the hurt, hoping its tattered predictability wouldn't crumble too.

My sister Kimi has no recollection of that night. I don't even remember her being there. If she had been there, I'm certain she would have been measuring to see who's room was bigger and who was closest to the bathroom. I was probably tuning her out in an effort to salvage the lining of happiness I kept tucked inside me.

I don't think divorce is a bad thing. For many people, it's the best option. I don't think it's necessarily bad for kids either. But for some reason, my parents' divorce was the most upsetting thing that happened in the first eighteen years of my life. Nowadays I was was used to the dynamic we'd adjusted to over the years. My parents were happy with their new spouses and friendly enough with each other to spend holidays and birthdays together with me and Kimi. The most upsetting thing about their divorce was how it had knocked the wind out of me, making me second-guess every footstep, simply because I hadn't seen it coming.

Santana squeezed my hand, giving me an apologetic pout before looking forward and accelerating.

Suddenly feeling like I had put a damper on our fun day trip, I shook off the subject of divorce and things that crumble and slipped back into our game.

"Your turn," I chirped.

"My turn?" she asked, confused.

"Now you ask me to tell you something you don't know about me."

"Oh. Okay. Tell me... tell me something about... your first time," she said, smile twitching in one corner of her mouth.

"My story isn't very interesting. I was fifteen and we'd been together a year. It wasn't bad and it wasn't great."

"Were you in loooove?" Santana asked, running her fingers up my legs in teasing.

I giggled. "I was."

Santana faced forward and nodded. I wanted to know about her first time too, but at the same time, I didn't. It was part of the boundary.

"Tell me something about..."

At that moment, a big pickup truck with oversized wheels pulled up next to us. I could feel the creepy leering of the driver before I even looked. He would have had a perfect view of my cleavage if my seatbelt hadn't been covering it nicely. Then, to my horror, he rolled down the window and tried to get my attention.

I turned to face Santana, grimacing. She made mock gagging expression and glanced up at the light nervously, hoping it would change and we could get away from the creep with the backwards baseball hat and polo shirt with the popped collar. When she saw the light wasn't green, she looked back over at me and said in sneaky murmur, "Want me to kiss you?"

Not wanting to make a scene or provoke any more inappropriate behavior from our onlooker, I shook my head firmly.

Santana nodded and looked back at the light. "Probably not a great idea. But I _would_ like to make someone jealous over you."

Settled by Santana's protectiveness and the sudden turning of the light, I returned to our game. Since she'd brought of the topic of jealousy, I ran with it.

"Tell me something I don't know about you and jealousy," I said.

Tell Me Something was becoming our game now, and from the look on Santana's face, she loved it as much as I did. She grinned and glanced at me, biting her smile in an expression of amused embarrassment.

"Well," she said. "Most recently, the person who has made me most jealous would be you."

"Me?" I asked, surprised.

"Yeah," she giggled. "When you told me you had a work thing and then I caught you out on a date with a _guy_."

I covered my face with my hands, partly to block out any memory of Vance, but mostly to convey how embarrassed I was about that whole scenario.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry... Ugh, I'm so awkward, I don't know what I lied about that."

She chuckled. "It's okay. It all worked out. But I was pretty jealous that night."

My mind flickered back to her tucking her date's hair behind her ear at the bar, leaning into her over their drinks in rapt attention.

"You hardly had anything to be jealous about. You were on a date too, and she was super hot," I said, playfully defensive.

At that, Santana broke out into full giggles. "I wasn't on a date. I got Cassie to play along to make you jealous back."

At that my jaw dropped. I had underestimated Santana's trickery. "You did not!" I gasped.

"Did too," Santana laughed. "I owed her big after that. I had to help her move out of her apartment into her loft in SoMa the next week. My arms hurt for _days_."

"You clever bitch," I muttered, shaking my head but unable to hide my smile.

She tilted her head and quirked her eyebrow. "It's only clever if it worked." She paused. "Did it work?"

I crossed my arms in feigned petulance, feeling foolish at the reminder of how I'd burned when I saw Santana being affectionate toward a woman who was hotter and more polished than me. "Maybe."

Santana smirked as we reached a stop sign before the onramp to Highway 101. "Good." She turned and gave me a quick peck on the cheek before refocusing on the road, "I promise you weren't half as jealous as I was of that guy you were with."

"Don't be," I muttered. "He turned out to be an asshole."

"Yeah, he looked like one," Santana said, putting her hand at the top of the steering wheel.

As she accelerated onto the highway, I was weighted with the reminder of how awful Vance had made me feel. Part of me wanted to tell Santana about it just so I could see her lips curl in sympathy or her brow knit in anger at Vance. But I knew there was a chance she'd be offended that I'd slept with him so readily and wasn't ready to sleep with her. Or worse, she'd feel like the only reason I wasn't sleeping with her yet was _because_ of Vance. Which, okay, was partly true. But I didn't want her to start campaigning for me to change my mind or go off on a misandrist tangent. I just wanted us to stay where we were on our precarious edge of intimacy.

So I turned back to the game, asking her to tell me something about her time at Columbia before she asked me about brain science. We found topic after topic to discuss, and time passed quickly.

Just after Gilroy, she turned to me with a playful smile and asked if I wanted to take the coast road the rest of the way. Trusting her to guide us to wherever the hell we were going, I shrugged and told her I was just happy to be chatting. She grinned and squeezed my hand, veering off 101 onto Highway 1.

After stopping for lunch in an adorable little café in Carmel, we drove down the coast. The car clung to curves lined with boulders, brushed past redwoods and cliffs that dropped straight into the Pacific. The road twisted and turned to the point where we had to pull over a few times to get a break from the constant torso muscle engagement, not to mention avoid getting carsick. But I was having such a wonderful time talking to Santana and learning about her life that I almost didn't notice I was a bit queasy. She was the one who had to do some deep breathing a few times, pulling over and slumping a bit as she rolled the windows down to get more air.

"You okay?" I asked, putting my hand protectively on hers to show her I was concerned. She was usually so poised and confident, it was odd to see her off balance. She closed her eyes and nodded and after a few moments of me stroking her hand, she sat up again, resolved to drive on.

"Do you want me to take a turn driving?" I offered.

"Do you _want_ to drive?"

"Sure," I shrugged. "If it would help."

"Okay," she said, seeming relieved. "I don't get carsick easily, but this road is intense," she mumbled.

"It is intense," I agreed, still stroking her hand.

"It's worth it, though," she said. "I promise."

We'd been driving for over three hours and she still hadn't told me where we were going. I was okay with that though. I kind of liked the excitement of not knowing. I was starting to really trust her. I knew she wasn't going to take me somewhere weird or creepy.

"How much further?" I asked.

"I think about twenty minutes."

I hopped out of the passenger seat and walked around to her side. I opened her door as she unclipped her seatbelt. She was still a bit limp in her seat, so I leaned in, pressing my lips to hers, starting right up with my tongue sliding along her lips, teasing her. Being around her for so long in close quarters without being able to kiss her was frustrating, so kissing her was a relief. She leaned up to meet me and I pulled back, and back, and out of the car, until she was forced to lift herself out of her seat to keep kissing me. Then I took her hand as I broke away, grinning as I helped her steady herself on the ground by the side of the road. She was smiling like a fool by the time she was on her feet.

Then, suddenly, she grabbed me by the waist and spun me around so my butt was up against the wheel hub and she was pressing against me, kissing me full force, sliding her tongue into my mouth with command. I went soft and surrendered to her kiss, happy that she was feeling well enough to be playful and forceful.

Sure enough, when her mouth reached my ear, she mumbled, "I'm experiencing a miraculous recovery."

"Can't be too safe though," I said, twisting to capture her lips again. "Better take precautions."

I pressed back against her, kissing her wildly until she slipped her leg between mine and pressed up.

I felt my breath hitch and I pulled away, gasping.

"I really like kissing you."

She panted and darted forward again, resealing our lips together. "Then don't stop."

So we kissed until we both forgot where we were. All I felt was her, and her, and more her, and the wind tangling our hair together. All I heard was our lips and the wind and the distant crashing of the waves against the rocks.

Suddenly, a car rounded the corner and honked LOUD. I would have jumped out of my shoes had I not been pressed against the car by Santana's body.

On high alert, I broke away, scared out of my mind. I had forgotten we were on the side of the highway. I had just wanted to kiss Santana. But now I was afraid. Santana's grip on my waist stiffened, and her head turned to watch the car pass us and continue on without further comment.

"Jesus Christ," I exhaled, shaky. "That scared the shit out of me."

Santana nodded, hands still tight on my waist.

But what I didn't say was that I was mostly uncomfortable because Santana was a girl and I didn't like attracting attention because of that. I was okay with holding her hand and little kisses on the cheek most of the time in the city, but making a baby with our mouths on the side of the road was far beyond my comfort zone. I didn't know how we'd gotten to that point. As I took stock of the way our bodies were positioned, I realized there was no way a passing car could have mistaken us for anything but two girls making out like teenagers by the side of the road. It was like a setup for a bad porn.

"We probably shouldn't do this in public," she said, extracting her leg from between mine. "Which is a shame, because I was hoping to drag you into a few dark corners and kiss you today."

"Dark corners?" I asked, frowning. Where could we be going that would have dark corners?

Santana's smile grew sneaky. "You'll see..." she said, freeing my hips as she walked to the passenger side of the car.

I got in the driver's seat and started the car as Santana began another round of Tell Me Something.

After about fifteen minutes, Santana put her hand on my arm. "Five miles, Princess," she said.

I nodded and kept driving as I recounted the story of how I'd put red paint in my hair as a child so I could be like Ariel.

But I wondered about her use of the word Princess. It seemed an odd thing to call me. Usually she just called me Britt or Babe or occasionally Baby.

"Okay, turn here," Santana said when we approached the first cross street I'd seen in miles. I turned onto the road, which had a big sign for Hearst Castle.

"You're taking me to a _castle_?" I asked, excited.

She held up her hands in a playful shrug and smiled. "You said to take you somewhere special to me. My family brought me here when I was twelve and I was speechless the whole time."

As we drove toward the visitor center, I leaned forward to try to see the castle she was apparently taking me to, but I couldn't see it.

"You can't see it," she said. "It's way up there behind those trees. It was built by William Randolph Hearst, who had more money than God and wanted to create the ultimate escape for his closest publishing execs, politicians, art dealers, and silver screen stars. He called it the Enchanted Hill. Coming here was probably why I got interested in journalism. I figured if newspaper people could hang out with movie stars in places like this, I should probably be one."

Suddenly suspicious at the reminder of Santana's ambition, I blurted, "Do you bring lots of girls here?" I was stunned by my sudden, inexplicable jealousy.

Luckily Santana took it in stride and chuckled. "You're the first girl I've brought here."

Relieved and feeling like I had drunk more of Willy Wonka's Floating Soda, I focused on finding us a parking spot.

* * *

x

* * *

I woke up the next morning with a heaviness in my stomach that had nothing to do with all the pizza I'd eaten with Santana the night before. I was dreading going to work, and to make things worse, I was working the morning shift, which always seemed to drag on forever. Desperate for some silver lining, I told myself at least I didn't have to work the Booth that day. That would have been overwhelming to the point that I might have intentionally missed work, which would knock me back to the bottom of the pay scale.

I checked the dance schedule and was relieved to see Callie would be there with me that morning. I would feel less vulnerable dancing with her as opposed to some of the newer girls. I made a promise to myself to appreciate Callie more.

When I got to Jez, Callie was already there, applying gold glitter to her breasts. "Hey hot stuff," she chirped. "How's it going?"

Unable to dredge up the energy to be cheerful in response, I let out a heavy sigh.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Things went sour in my side job," I said vaguely.

Callie whipped her gaze away from the mirror and looked at me with wide, concerned eyes.

"Not like that," I said, assuring her I hadn't gotten a disease or been assaulted. "I found a camera," I mumbled. I thought back to the satisfying crunch of the camera under my tire and felt a little better about the situation, though it still bothered me.

"Oh, fuck that," Callie muttered, turning back to the mirror. "Get your ass out of there."

"Don't worry," I sighed. "The thought of touching him again makes me want to hurl."

Callie hummed in sympathy. "What are you going to do about your car?"

Grateful she understood my worries, I shrugged. "Not sure yet."

Callie finished applying her glitter and came over to me, sparkling breasts hanging down as she put her hands on my knees and kissed me on the cheek. "I'm sorry, sweetie. That's rough." Then she stood and walked back to her locker, selecting a wig and fitting it on her head. "What do you say you and I have fun in there today," she said, gesturing in the direction of the Box. "We'll just dance like maniacs."

Encouraged that Callie was helping me make the best of a bad situation, I nodded and finished getting ready.

When I got into the Box for what must have been my two hundredth shift, I felt like it was the first time again. As we wiped down the poles, my nakedness felt awkward and I was more self-conscious in front of the mirrors than I could remember being in months. When we finished, knowing there wasn't anyone watching, Callie slapped my ass and said, "Let's work it, sister." Then she turned up _Bootylicious_ at full volume and started doing her most ridiculous, exaggerated bootyshaking, to the point where I started laughing. When she heard me laugh, she looked over her shoulder and smiled. I was so relieved to have someone like Callie with me, I was able to slip back into my usual self in the Box, being even more animated and energetic than usual. But the time my shift was over, I was drenched in sweat, and I had that high that people get when they exercise vigorously.

After showering and putting my street clothes back on, I ventured out into the January chill. At home, I made a huge spinach, goat cheese, and strawberry salad with balsamic dressing, which I ate while watching a documentary about bonobo monkeys. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that male bonobos sometimes offered female bonobos sugar cane in exchange for sex. It seemed humans weren't the only animals who engaged in prostitution. When the documentary was over, I pulled my hair into a ponytail and hopped in my car to go to Swivel. While I hadn't forgotten about the night before, I wasn't letting my anger or fear consume me. I felt in control again.

Cassie had moved me to intermediate months before, and I was hoping someday soon she'd promote me to advanced. I had mastered most inversions, though I still struggled to do them on my left side sometimes. I felt at home on a pole and missed it on days when I didn't have Cassie's tough love pushing me to be better.

I realized how hard I'd worked myself in the Box that morning halfway through my class. I was hanging upside down in my third inversion when Cassie came over to me, not bothering to lower her voice as she said, "What's wrong with you today? You're sloppy."

I sighed, tightening my calves around the pole to keep from slipping. "I had a hard shift this morning."

Cassie raised her eyebrows, unamused. She poked at the bottom of my foot, reminding me to point my toes. Then she lowered her voice and said, "I was thinking of asking you to take over my beginner classes, but if you're going to let your other job affect your dancing, maybe I should reconsider."

I was so surprised I almost slipped down my pole and busted my head open on the floor. While I had been aiming to be placed in Cassie's advanced pole class - I still remembered the mesmerizing routine I'd seen her do the first time I saw her in the hustle club - I had never considered teaching.

Struggling, I strained up and grabbed the pole above my legs with my hands, turning my body upright so I could dismount. "Take over?" I breathed.

Cassie quirked her eyebrow and drew a finger to her lips, telling me to keep quiet.

"I'd love to," I said, thrilled with the idea of teaching novice dancers how to handle a pole. It didn't even occur to me that I'd make money doing it. "Tell me what to do and I'll do it."

Cassie gave me one of the only honest, friendly smiles I'd ever seen her give. "Get back on that pole and show me you're worth it," she said.

Fueled by her underhanded praise, I hopped back on the pole, determined to master my reverse inversions.

After class, Cassie gave me a subtle beckon with her index finger as she stacked the stretching mats. I rushed over to help her, wiping each mat down as the other students filed out of the studio. When it was just the two of us, Cassie stood up and gave a half-smile. "So the studio's filling up and, frankly, beginners bore me. Are you interested?"

"Yeah," I said, sounding breathy and eager. "I'm totally interested."

"Good," she said, bobbing her head. "Come teach a class while I watch tomorrow afternoon."

I'd have to find a replacement for my Jez shift, but I quickly agreed, thanking her profusely before I left.

I immediately started planning. I had only twenty-four hours to prepare something that could be a big wind of change in my life. On my drive home I scrolled through my music, drafting a playlist of tempo-appropriate songs from stretch to cooldown.

The following day, I was nervous but relieved I didn't have to go back in to Jez. Nora, the new girl everyone referred to as my doppelganger, was eager to fill in for me. I picked my best workout outfit and headed to Swivel way too early. I busied myself mastering the sound system and placing the mats around the room.

Cassie prowled around as the girls filed in for class. I was sweating and hoped my palms wouldn't be too clammy to spin. I encouraged everyone to start stretching and checked in with each girl about how we're he was to poling. There were a few nervous first-timers, and their nerves made me feel better about mine. Even if I was new to teaching, I was comfortable on a pole, and I knew I could help beginners get comfortable too.

When it was time for the class to begin, Cassie addressed the girls with a fatigued voice. "Okayyy, ladies. Brittany here is training to take over the beginner classes, so don't go easy on her okay? Be just as impossible as you are with me. Take it away, Brittany." She gave a hint of a smile and prowled back to the leopard-print couch in the back of the room. She sat and leaned back, her expression cool as she looked at me.

Taking that as my cue to start, I gave the class a nervous smile and sat down, leaning forward with my legs outstretched to reach my toes. The class followed suit, and I started engaging them in friendly chatter about music and the state of our pedicures and where the best cupcakes in town were.

By the time I'd led them through the obligatory stretches and pole-ups, I was relaxed. As I stepped into my Ellies and demonstrated some introductory spins, I knew I'd found something I loved doing that had fewer hangups than stripping. I walked around the room, encouraging everyone, peppering the room with praise the same way Cassie distributed sneers and eyerolls. I helped three girls do their first spins and gave pointers about chalk and handwashing to girls who were having trouble with slipping. When we had finished stretching out at the end of the class, I felt great. The hour had flown by, and if the sweaty smiles of the girls in front of me were any indication, they liked me.

There was only one more person I needed approval from, and she was still expressionless in the back of the room.

After everyone had left and I was halfway through stacking the stretch mats, Cassie walked over to me and said, "You good with doing that three days a week?"

Stunned at her up-front offer, I looked up and nodded.

"Great," she said. "You get to keep fifty percent of the class fees, the rest goes to rent and management. I'll get you some business cards."

At that point, I didn't even care about the money. I was just so happy that someone trusted me to do something besides take my clothes off.

"Great," I said, grinning like a fool.

Cassie gave a brief smile and then turned and walked toward the door. When she was almost there, she looked over her shoulder and said, "Oh, and I wouldn't mention your other job, if I were you." She provided no other explanation, only turned and walked out of the studio into the office.

I tried to brush the comment off as I finished stacking the mats and picked up my purse. I fished out my phone and sent text messages to Justine and Santana with lots of exclamation points. Justine was still at work, so I didn't expect a response from her, but Santana replied immediately.

_Congrats! Come celebrate!_

I was hesitant. I didn't know how it would be to be around her now that I knew I was attracted to her. I did want to see her when I wasn't angry or crying my eyes out. She was a sweet girl, and I enjoyed her company. It could be simple, right? I mean, I was attracted to some of the girls at Jez and it never got complicated. I knew deep down that my attraction to my coworkers was a different kind of attraction, a purely sexual one, but the logic was enough for me to justify seeing Santana again. I agreed and sped over the Haight.

Santana gave me an energetic hug at the door and I was suddenly self-conscious about how sticky I was from teaching.

"Sorry I'm gross," I muttered into her hair. "I came right from the studio."

"This is so exciting!" she said, ignoring my apology as she rocked side to side in our hug. "I bet you're a great teacher. I mean, I know you are. You tried to teach me, and it was a valiant attempt."

Remembering how hesitant and unsteady Santana had been in the Box at Jez, I grew warm. I knew I should let go of her and keep my boundaries in place, but she was still squeezing me, so it wouldn't have mattered if I did. Her body felt so soft and warm against mine.

"What's your favorite, favorite food?" she asked, pulling away. "Any kind. Breakfast, lunch, or dinner."

Smiling at her enthusiasm, I shrugged and said, "I don't know. I'm in the mood for pancakes."

"Done," Santana said. She pointed down the street. "There's a twenty-four hour diner down the street with awesome pancakes.

"Sold," I said.

We walked a few blocks and Santana asked me the details of the job. I told her what I knew, babbling aloud about my ideas for which songs to use and what I wanted to do differently than Cassie usually did, which consisted primarily of incorporating more choreography into each class. Santana paid rapt attention, asking lots of questions and mirroring my excitement.

I adored her even more for that.

And as those warm, hopeful feelings flowed through me, I remembered that I needed to keep a comfortable distance.

We walked into the diner and were seated by the window. After flipping through the worn plastic menu, I set mine down, realizing I hadn't asked her about her day or even thanked her for taking care of me.

"Hey, I never thanked you for taking care of me the other night. Hanging out with you and Schro was exactly what I needed."

Santana tilted her head and smiled. "No problem. We were just having a quiet night in and you made it much more fun."

I let out a quiet scoff. I'd come running to a girl I'd only recently met with my makeup in rings around my eyes, upset about how my prostitution client had screwed me over. It didn't seem like hanging out with me could be fun.

Santana kept talking. "I mean, I'll probably never get to run over a video camera in a Beemer again, so you could say it was a once in a lifetime experience."

Ever appreciative of Santana's polite humor, I nodded and looked down at my hands where they rested over each other on the edge of the table as I leaned on my elbows.

"Are you doing okay now?" Santana asked, tilting her head to try to meet my eyes.

"Yeah. I just feel bad asking you to help me clean up my own mess," I mumbled.

"Don't feel bad," Santana said, leaning forward. "He made the mess, not you."

"I guess," I said, skeptical.

It was quiet for a moment before Santana said, "Sometimes asking for help seems like an impossibly big favor to the person asking and a trivial thing to the person giving."

I nodded, still not meeting her eyes.

Santana continue, lowering her voice further. "When I was in college, I ran to Isaiah when I was freaked out. We didn't know each other that well then. So don't worry about it. That's how relationships are built."

Wondering what could have happened to someone like Santana to freak her out, I looked up. "What happened?"

Santana leaned back, looking down at the table as her shoulders stiffened. "Just something with my roommate."

Seeing Santana's sudden discomfort and wanting to relieve it, I made a joke. "Did she videotape you having sex?" As soon as I said it, I realized it sounded like I was competing with her for who had it worse.

Luckily Santana gave a brief, appreciative chuckle. "No, nothing like that. She came home drunk one night and kissed me. I was young and it freaked me out."

That was not at all what I expected her to say.

If I hadn't been pleasantly surprised with my newfound knowledge that Santana had kissed a girl, I would have burst out laughing. To me, kissing a girl was the most mundane thing in the world. I had kissed Callie the other day in the Box. We did it all the time and it wasn't a big deal.

But there was something about kissing a girl that had unsettled Santana to the point where I was suspicious.

So, hoping against hope, I dared to ask.

"Did you like her?" Maybe if that had been the case, Santana's discomfort would make sense.

Santana furrowed her brow at me. "She was my roommate," she said, as though that precluded any attraction to her.

"So?" I shrugged, reminding her that attraction has no regard for living arrangements. Or relationship status. Or orientation.

Santana realized how faulty her logic was too, because she gave a timid shrug and said, "I mean... she was pretty." Then she seemed to retreat further into herself, as though trying to hide the blush that accompanied a crush.

"Like okay pretty or drop-dead gorgeous?" I said, teasing her.

Santana shrugged again, but it looked like a wriggle. "I don't know."

Squinting at her in amusement, I said, "Even straight girls know when another girl is hot."

Santana nodded, eyes scanning the restaurant. When I saw the relief on her face when a waitress came up to take our order, I realized I'd pushed too far. I needed to make it up to her, so after we placed our orders for pancakes and cocoa, I retreated to a topic that was more comfortable for her.

"So you and Isaiah have a big anniversary coming up, huh?"

Santana nodded, biting her lips. "Saturday, yeah... Anniversaries make me nervous."

"I think that's kinda the point," I said with a smirk. "Do you know what you're going to get him?"

Santana gave an uncomfortable shrug. "Maybe a nice new shirt and tie. He likes when I help him pick out his work outfits."

I wrinkled my nose. "That's a boring present."

Santana slumped a little. "I know..."

"You could get him some Booth time at Jez," I said, quirking my eyebrow.

Santana's eyes widened and her mouth opened a bit as she tried to figure out how to respond to my suggestion that she send her boyfriend to a peepshow to roleplay with strippers for their fifth anniversary.

"I'm _kidding_," I said, surprised she had taken me seriously. For some couples, that might have been a wonderful gift, but I had no delusions about the vanilla-ness of Santana's relationship with Isaiah. I doubted they'd ever had sex anywhere but the bed. Maybe they're done it on the couch once or twice, but that had been in a moment of boldness.

Not that I should have been thinking about Santana and Isaiah having sex. But I was. I had no qualms admitting that I was jealous of Isaiah. It was hard to imagine someone deserving of Santana. I hoped he was as good to her as she claimed he was.

Santana looked relieved and let a sheepish smile sweep over her face before she said, "Is there middle ground between a tie and a lap dance?"

"A massage gift certificate?" I suggested. "A regular one. Not a happy ending massage."

Santana perked up. "That's a great idea. He'd really like that, actually. He's always so tense from work."

"There's a great place by my house. I go there all the time, especially when I'm sore from work. You should come by my place, and we can pick up a gift certificate."

Finally Santana smiled again, just in time for our cocoa to be placed in front of us and her hands to wrap around her mug. "Okay," she said. "How about Thursday?"

"Thursday is perfect. I have nothing until my first pole class at four."

"Okay. Lunch?" Santana asked.

I was a bit surprised she wanted to hang out with me again so readily after I'd made her squirm with my underhanded questioning of her sexuality and then my teasing about what to get her boyfriend, but I was glad she wasn't as delicate as I sometimes thought she was. I nodded, relieved that she wasn't scared off by my artlessness or goading.

At that moment her phone must have buzzed in her pocket because her hand darted down under the table and brought her phone back up. She slid the call open and held it to her ear.

"Hey," she said, with a degree of familiarity. She listened for a moment before saying, "Not much. Just having pancakes with Brittany." She paused for a moment before looking up at me and shifting the phone away from her mouth. "Isaiah says hi," she said.

"Hi, Isaiah," I said. It sounded more drone-like than I intended.

While I knew Isaiah existed, Santana taking a call from him made him more real. The fact that I hadn't seen a picture of him enabled me to keep him in the realm of the imaginary. But sitting across from Santana as she talked to him reminded me he wasn't just an idea. He was a person. A person who had captured Santana's heart and managed to hold onto it for five years.

"Brittany says hi back. So what's up?"

Santana eased into listening as her gaze rested on the table. She hummed into the phone a little as Isaiah talked, once looking up to mouth _Sorry_. I lifted my hand to brush off the apology. She was allowed to talk to her boyfriend around me. Even if it was a harsh reminder that I needed to keep myself in check. Even if it did pain me to listen to how comfortable she was talking to someone besides me. Even if I did wish that it was me celebrating an anniversary with her the following weekend.

"Sounds great. No, you always pick great restaurants. Go ahead and make the reservation. Yeah. Of course."

As Santana and her boyfriend made plans for their anniversary dinner, I adjusted myself in my worn plastic seat, determined to be content with diner pancakes.


	11. Slow Dancing In a Burning Room

**A/N: Thanks for the continued readership and support! And thanks to JJ for her unabated enthusiasm and ninja-precise guidance.**

* * *

**Chapter 11: Slow Dancing In A Burning Room**

* * *

So here's what you missed on Dandelion: Bar!Santana came to Justine's birthday party as Brittany's not-date but when Brittany started having a friendly conversation with a guy in front of her, Santana totally freaked out and left and she wouldn't explain why. Lab!Britt and Santana drove down the California Coast toward Hearst Castle together, talking about everything and nothing because they're totally smitten with each other but they _still_ haven't had sex. Violet!Britt and Santana keep hanging out and even though it's pretty hard for Britt to be around a girl she likes so much who is off limits, she offered to help Santana get a gift for her boyfriend for their five year anniversary. And that's what you missed!

* * *

I went back to the party, upset with Santana, but mostly at myself. I knew I shouldn't have lashed out at her, but why was I putting up with her awful behavior? I deserved better. I grabbed another drink, tipped it back into my throat, and picked up another. Justine saw me, and I was thankful that our house was full of people when she raised her eyebrows at me. I couldn't handle her "told-you-so" commentary.

I went back into the living room and found Vance chatting up a cute brunette in the corner. He was smiling and focusing on her like she was the only person in the room. That had been me under his gaze twenty minutes ago. But now I felt out of place in my own apartment.

I went up to them, hoping to cut into their conversation. I didn't so much want to flirt with him as to feel included in a conversation. That was normal, right?

But if I'm being totally honest, I did want to flirt with him. I was angry at Santana and getting attention from someone like Vance would make me feel better. I may have adored Santana, but wanting to be flattered by someone else wasn't a crime.

As I drifted into the kitchen to get my fourth drink of the evening, I found myself wondering what it would be like for Santana to be the one to find me just past the throes of passion with someone else. Would she blow up? Cry? Feel like I'd felt when I discovered her in bed with someone else?

Would she have any feelings at all?

I almost wanted to have a one night stand just to find out.

But Vance's fixation on the brunette seemed impenetrable. I finished my drink and got another, drowning out the awfulness of Santana's rejection. If I'd learned anything as a bartender, it was that alcohol was the solution to every fool's maladies.

After I was feeling significantly buzzed, I wandered back into the living room to find a group of people crowded around our coffee table playing Cards Against Humanity, filling up the room with raucous, drunken laughter. Willing to try anything to distract myself, I joined in.

After a few rounds, I had left the feeling of Santana's ice completely behind. I was frothy with laughter and drink, and the evening blurred on until I somehow found myself in my bed - alone - under my covers, sinking toward sleep.

In the morning I awoke to a soft knock on my door. Groggy and aching, I groaned and rolled over, burying my head under my pillow and cursing the light that glared into my room at this hour of the day. The knock came again and I mumbled from under the pillow, "Come in."

The footsteps that entered weren't Justine's. I lifted my head enough to look at the floor through the slat between the mattress and pillow and was surprised to see the bottom half of Santana's legs, her feet sliding towards me in her favorite sandals.

"Morning, Britt," she whispered.

I lifted my head, letting the pillow teeter and flop off as I blinked at her.

"Morning," I croaked.

She sat on the edge of my bed, tipping my torso towards her with the dip of the mattress as she placed a bag and cup on the edge of my desk.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose and feeling the sharp throb behind my eyes. "I've been better."

Santana put her hand on my sleep-warm back and ran across it a few times.

"I brought you a nice greasy breakfast sandwich and some cocoa," she said. "I thought you might need it."

Surprised by her kind gesture after her inexplicable awfulness last night, I turned onto my side and looked up at her.

"Thanks," I said.

She gave a distracted nod as she looked around my room, avoiding eye contact. It was silent for a moment as I tried to figure out what the fuck her angle was this time. Avoiding me one day and being sweet and thoughtful the next? Nothing about her made sense.

"I'm sorry for being such a bitch yesterday," Santana mumbled, looking down at her nails. "I was... having a rough time," she said vaguely. Then she finally made eye contact. "Sorry I took it out on you."

Relieved that she knew she'd been mean to me, I nodded and extended my hand to her. She took it without hesitation and gave it a little squeeze as she bit her lip.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I asked.

She shook her hair, her hair swinging in front of her face. "I just want to move on. We can go to the movies today if you want," she offered. "If your head feels okay."

Relieved she was back to being her sweet self, I rolled onto my back and smiled at her. "Sounds good," I said. "Thanks for breakfast."

Santana reached forward and moved a strand of my hair out of my face. She studied me, seeming to contemplate something quietly as I tried to appreciate the moment through my hangover. My head was pounding, and since Santana had arrived, my heart had started pounding too, making it hurt more.

"Did you want to rest some more? I can do some work if you'd rather be alone..."

Knowing that I might not see this sweet side of Santana again soon if I willingly let her leave, I squeezed her hand. "Did you bring breakfast for yourself?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Santana's eyes darted around and she shrugged. I got the sense that she felt like bringing her own food to my house would be too intimate or too casual or weaken her gesture of apology. Which, granted, was a nice gesture, but it still didn't explain her behavior. Apologizing for behavior didn't help me understand it.

"Did I do something last night that made you angry?" I asked. "Besides talk to that guy?"

Santana lowered her head and shook it. "No. I overreacted to that," she mumbled. "I'm sorry."

I nodded, still perplexed. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I mean... I said I was sorry," she said, inching away from the subject I really wanted to talk about, which was our relationship. But she was so skittish, and it occurred to me that her jealousy over a harmless conversation might be an indicator of her insecurity. After all, sex was one thing, but intimacy was another. When I thought about it, I'd never been intentionally intimate with her. Maybe she needed me to tell her with words how I felt about her rather than asking her on dates or showing her with my body and attention. Everyone's ears work differently.

I squeezed her hand. "You know you're special to me, right?" I murmured.

Santana looked up through her lashes and gave a subtle nod, sucking her lower lip under her teeth. Then, to my delight, she said very quietly, "You're special to me too."

I felt my body exhale in relief, and half my headache faded. We were back to normal. Normal for us, at least. Whatever that was.

And that was good enough for now.

I smiled and leaned up to peck her on the cheek before darting into the bathroom, peeing, brushing my teeth, splashing some cold water on my face, and drinking a big glass of water. Then I walked back into my room and hopped into my bed, scooting over a few inches and lifting the cover, offering Santana a space.

Relieved, Santana leaned down and tucked herself next to me, her body going soft into the warm spot I'd left with my own. She nestled into me and I wrapped my arms around her. We'd just had a fight was all. Couples had those, right? Even if we weren't an official couple yet. Santana was scared, and that could make anyone pick a fight. My willingness to fight back out of frustration hadn't helped.

I stroked her hair and relished the calm, quiet of the morning. We basked in each other for a long time, and I vaguely listened to Justine getting ready for her day. Santana and I lay in each other's arms for a while, adjusting our necks or arms every minute or so. It was soothing.

And then, once the front door closed behind Justine, Santana tilted her head up to me with a smile. It wasn't long before my lips were on hers and we were curling into each other, drinking each other in, peeling off layers of clothing as our panting and grasping and humming escalated. Then she was on top of me and her fingers we inside me and I was delirious with pleasure, relieved and desperate to be closer. If there was any part of Santana I never doubted, it was the way she was when she was naked against me. She was always strong and sure of herself. It was comforting and arousing all at once.

After we'd finished, she turned to me with a sated grin and pressed a kiss to my cheek.

"I don't know what I was worried about," she said. "That guy's got nothing on me."

"You can say that again," I giggled.

"That guy's got nothing on me."

I laughed and she smiled and I knew we'd made up.

"Can I sing it?" she asked, giggling to herself. She was giddy, practically loopy with happiness.

"Sing what?" I asked, confused.

"The song."

"What song?"

Santana chuckled to herself some more before she flopped her hands on the sheets on either side of her body and sang quietly but enthusiastically, "I just had se-exx... And it fe-elt so good..."

I dissolved into giggles with her, rolling into her body as I tried to wrestle her out of her dorkiness. Or maybe I wanted to join her in it. I just knew that in that moment, I was happy, and she was happy, and we were naked, and I felt closer to her than ever.

My half-hearted attempt to quiet her only served to make her sing louder, and I wrestled her down harder until we were both laughing so hard and we were so tangled together that we collapsed and ended up kissing through smiles for a few minutes.

When she pulled away, calmer, she still couldn't resist saying, "And I didn't even put a bag over your head."

That earned her a playful smack on the hip and giggling "Shut up," as I kissed her again.

If fighting with her resulted in sweet, steamy makeup sex like this, then perhaps fighting wasn't the worst thing in the world.

We took a shower together, spending what must have been an hour kissing under the spray. My headache had completely evaporated, and aside from being hungry and pruny, I felt great. We dressed and took turns brushing out each others' hair before we inhaled the food Santana had brought. When that still wasn't enough, we ventured into the kitchen where we made pancakes, laughing as we spilled flour and dripped batter. We didn't even bother with two plates; we piled a big stack on one plate, drowned it in maple syrup, and ate off it together, smiling with the sweetness and stickiness of our morning.

Once we'd cleaned up our mess, Santana checked her phone. "_Oz_ is playing at two."

Remembering her offer to go to the movies this afternoon, I smiled and murmured, "Okay."

I went into my room to get us some sweaters before we made our way down to Santana's car, sealing ourselves inside. We drove to the theater without saying much, Santana seeming to disappear into her mind. It didn't bother me. After being close to her all morning, I didn't need to talk much. We found parking and walked into the theater, Santana walking a bit faster than usual, even though we weren't late. She gave her gift certificate to the person working the ticket counter, then handed me my ticket without making eye contact.

"You want popcorn?" she asked.

"Only if you do," I said. We were still full of pancakes, but it was nice to have something to munch on.

"Regular butter?"

"Perfect."

Santana kept her chin down as we waited in line, flicking through her phone a few times. She ordered our popcorn with a stiff voice and handed it to me once we'd checked out. As we walked toward the theater, I studied her. Had something happened to make her retreat a little bit? Was she stressed about an assignment? Avoiding someone she knew in the lobby? Did she have a hard time with groups of people? Whatever it was, it eluded me.

Once we got into the theater, she seemed to calm a bit. We made our way up the stairs to the way back and selected two seats in the middle. Santana sat rigid in hers, arranging her purse in the seat next to her, turning her phone on silent and checking a few more things. She held the popcorn while I got settled, making sure not to move too quickly and spook her. She was very spookable, and I didn't know why.

I looked around, relieved the theater was mostly empty. If my theory that Santana didn't like crowded places was right, she'd feel more comfortable this way. We played along with the pre-show guessing game, mostly so we didn't have to sit in awkward silence. We didn't get any of the answers right, which always feels a bit humiliating.

Once the lights dimmed and the previews started, Santana eased back into her chair a bit more, slumping and putting her feet up on the seat in front of her. There were a few clusters of people around the theater, but it was seventy-five percent empty. I suppose the movie had been running for a while, so it was predictable.

Once the previews were over, Santana adjusted herself again. Then, to my surprise, she sat forward, flipped the arm between our chairs up, and gave me a flirty smile as she lifted her arm, offering to let me snuggle into her side. I did so eagerly, relieved that she was okay again. Maybe she had just been anxious for a little while. That was okay. I get anxious sometimes too.

As the opening credits rolled, Santana reached into the popcorn and took a single piece out with her fingers. Then she held it up to my lips and waited for me to take it. Grinning, I did. She repeated the action a few times before feeding herself a few pieces and then holding up another piece for me to eat. Wanting to encourage her sweet, playful gesture, I tilted my chin forward and took not just the piece of popcorn in my mouth, but one of her fingers too. Holding it gently with my teeth, I slowly started to suck. Santana tensed and quivered against me as I drew her finger deeper into my mouth, running my tongue along the bottom. When I let her finger go, she exhaled. She had definitely liked that.

Not wanting to heat things up too fast, I took the next few pieces of popcorn she offered without teasing, allowing the salt to adhere them to my tongue long enough to be pulled inside and crushed, leaving her fingers untouched. Then, after a few minutes, I repeated what I'd done to her finger and was rewarded with a soft, breathy whine in my ear. I smiled around her finger before releasing it and settling back into watching the movie. As much as I loved teasing her, hooking up in a movie theater was a bit tacky, and I knew if I got her any more worked up, we'd start making out, which would lead to wanting more. So I left the finger-sucking as it was, pressing a kiss into her shoulder as a promise to follow through once we were behind closed doors.

The movie seemed way too short. It felt like we'd only been snuggling for a few minutes when the credits started rolling. Santana extracted her arm from around me and leaned forward, collecting her purse and rolling up the half-empty popcorn bag. She gave me a tight smile and we left the theater.

I wasn't ready to lose the warm snuggling feeling so soon though. We'd had over five hours of sweetness without anything changing. I suspected crowded places made her anxious, so I told myself I had to wait until we were outside to get close to her again. Just enough time to shake the snuggle wrinkles out of my clothes and get a few breaths of fresh air.

In the lobby, as I predicted, Santana zipped up again, stashing the popcorn in the trash and looking around her with nervous, darting eyes as she headed for the door. I followed partly to her side and a step behind, letting her find the path that felt best for her. It didn't really matter how we got there as long as we got back to the car.

Once we were out in the sun - it's one of the weirdest things ever, leaving a movie theater in the daytime - I thought everything would be okay. Fresh air makes things seem farther apart when it's not too hot. I thought Santana would breathe easier and we could slip back into our snuggling, stretching out the sweetness of our makeup sex and pancake syrup even longer. So I nudged up against her with a playful smile and slid my hand into hers between our bodies, gripping her palm as I gave her a sneaky, flirty smile that told her I couldn't wait to get into the privacy of her bedroom or maybe even her car.

But to my surprise, she violently jerked her hand away from me, leaping away as though I'd shocked her. I felt like she'd slapped me in the face. And then she gave me a look that was all ice and daggers and I felt punched in the gut too.

I was so surprised I couldn't speak. The sting of her glare silenced me.

What had I done wrong now?

* * *

x

* * *

I found a parking spot and Santana sprung out of her seat as soon as I put the car in park. I could feel her excitement as she darted over to me before I'd even gotten out. She laced her hand with mine as she helped me find the button to lock her car, then pulled me toward the entrance.

Inside was a predictable visitor center, with souvenirs and snacks and displays of maps and tourist attractions. She walked me over to a board that detailed the various tours of the castle.

"Pick any one you want," she said, gesturing to the five options we had for touring what must have been an enormous castle. "We should start with this one," she said, pointing to the starter tour before her hand drifted over the rest, "but after that we can do as many as we have energy for. We could do all five if you want."

I studied the tour options, seeing the photographs of the castle grounds and great halls and works of art and pools. Everything looked amazing, I didn't know where to start, other than the starter tour. Finally I looked at Santana and said, "Which one is your favorite?"

"All of them," she said, seeming to ground herself a bit. "But I love this one," she said, pointing to a tour on the board.

"That's the one I want," I said, not even bothering to look where she was pointing. She loved this place so much and I loved being around her and I wanted to see her happy.

"Are you sure?"

"Yep."

She grew bouncy again and squeezed my hand. "Okay."

Reveling in her unhindered excitement, I let Santana lead me to the ticket counter and then the bus; up the winding hill where we strolled through lush gardens, crystal clear pools with fountains, and gold-plated statues; and walked through halls lined with priceless art, stately furniture, and the most stylish architecture of the castle's era. It was a treasure to behold. Almost as precious as the expression on Santana's face when she watched me experience it for the first time.

After going on three tours, our legs were aching and our stomachs were growling and we decided to call it a day. Santana suggested we not take the coast road home. It was getting dark, so I nodded and gripped her hand as we walked back to the car.

As we wove back through the trees and boulders and cliffs on our way back to the highway and a new calm washed over us. We still talked, remarking on the things we'd seen that day, but the playful spark that had been in our conversation on the drive down was now a soft glow. At one point, I took Santana's hand and just held it for a long period of time as we drove through the twilight back to San Francisco in silence. And it wasn't awkward. It was as wonderful as eating cupcakes with her.

"Can we stop for cupcakes?" I asked.

Santana looked at me with an amused smile. "I was thinking dinner first, but of course." She nodded to my phone where it rested in a cup holder. "Find a place."

I grinned and picked up my phone, not letting go of her hand as I found first a pizza parlor and then a cupcake shop that was still open.

An hour later we were full of pizza and sitting on a bench outside a mom and pop bakery with a plate of cupcakes on a table in front us.

I realized that the cupcake I was holding had pink frosting, and given the right tongue technique, could easily be moulded into a vagina. I was surprised my brain had turned a dessert into something sexual. Maybe it was a result of all our pent-up sexual energy. As I briefly contemplated using the cupcake to tease her, I felt my face grow warm.

Santana picked up a cupcake and studied my face. "You're blushing," she said.

"No I'm not," I grumbled, busying myself licking the frosting off the _edge_ of my cupcake. I felt myself getting warmer, and I knew Santana was right.

Santana hooked her finger under my chin, tearing me attention away from my dessert. She made intense eye contact before twisting her torso enough to kiss me, soft with only a little tongue against my lips. Then she broke away and murmured, "I'm really happy to have you as my girlfriend. Even if you blush easily."

I felt a relieved, giddy giggle bubble up through me. She'd said it. She'd said I was her girlfriend.

But I loved playing with her. Her playfulness was the most surprising and fun thing about her. "Girlfriend, huh?" I said.

"Girlfriend," she said, winking. "Unless you have other offers."

I dropped the game and smiled. "No," I hummed. "I want to be your girlfriend."

"Good." She kissed me again, brief and soft before she lifted her cupcake to her lips and licked some of the frosting off.

I sat looking at her, not feeling the need to speak. We had reached that level of intimacy; we didn't have to talk to be comfortable. We could just sit and enjoy each other's company and not get anxious about what silence meant. It just meant we adored each other and would rather be together than alone. If we could do that, we could do lots of things and not have them be awkward.

I thought about my decision to wait to have sex with her. It had been about making myself feel safe under the guise of creating intimacy, right? Well, now I felt safe _and_ intimate.

And, as inklings tend to happen, I got the sense that I was ready to have sex with her. She had been patient and kind and had taken me on heartfelt adventures. She's bared herself in precisely the manner I'd intended for us to get to know each other. And while the pressure to have sex would always be there, probably more from myself rather than her, it didn't feel so awful anymore.

I wanted to have sex with her. The idea of being naked and talking about our bodies and kinks and histories didn't feel threatening or scary. It sounded wonderful.

But I didn't know how to tell her that. Usually I just started kissing someone until clothes started peeling off, but that wasn't how I wanted it to be with us. I wanted it to be special and intentional. I also didn't want to experience crippling anxiety afterwards, which meant I wanted her to get tested first, which meant we had to talk about it.

I thought about the best way to ask her to get an STD test. Should I make a joke? Send her a text later tonight? Use the cupcake?

But instead of saying something, I started kissing her. There weren't many people on the street, and kissing in public was okay as long as it didn't get too steamy.

But I must have underestimated my kissing because soon Santana pulled away. She kept her eyes closed and took a deep breath to calm herself. Every time she pulled away like that, I felt a twinge of guilt and flattery. By just kissing her, I aroused her. It was a good feeling and didn't make me uncomfortable at all, especially now that I wanted to be naked with her.

I was just about to whisper that I was ready when she tapped my nose and said. "Tell me something about freckles."

I smiled, loving that we had made this our game now. "I have lots of them," I said. "Do you have any?" I joked. Clearly, from her pristine skin, anyone could tell she didn't have freckles.

"Actually," she said, growing coy. "I do. Well, not freckles, but beauty marks. One here," she said, pointing to the familiar mole on her shoulder. "And two more somewhere else," she said, glancing away coquettishly.

"Somewhere else..." I echoed, intrigued and playing into her game.

She gave a smug nod, then looked down in her lap. "Twinsies. One on each side," she said, tapping a few inches in from each hip bone. "But only special ladies get to meet them."

I loved the fine line of sexy and safe she was walking. She wasn't pushing me to have sex, but she was keeping up the intrigue and making me feel desired.

"Could I be one of those special ladies?" I said, playing up the adorable personification of her beauty marks.

She grinned and nodded. "Definitely. My freckles would love to meet you."

I leaned forward, nuzzling her nose and giving her a peck on the lips.

"But only when you're ready," she added. "They'll be patient."

I decided the best thing would be to be honest with her. I would want her to do the same, right? So I bit the bullet and brought it up with her.

"I've been thinking about that," I began. "We should get tested soon."

Santana's face fell from its playfulness into surprised eagerness. "Yeah," she said. "We should do that."

I smiled at her willingness. "Yeah?"

"Whatever you want," Santana said. "I'll do it."

Relieved and excited that we were talking about something sexual besides how we _weren't_ doing it, I smiled. "Okay."

There was a quiet silence as Santana looked at me to gauge whether or not I was really in with both feet. Wanting to assure her, I picked up another cupcake.

"Actually I got tested about two months ago. Everything came back negative. I haven't been with anyone since," I said.

"Good to hear," Santana said.

"Yeah."

"I'll do it this week," Santana said.

There was a tense moment of silence as we licked the frosting off our cupcakes in what suddenly seemed like a very lewd fashion.

Wanting to assure her I was feeling good about my decision, I gave her a playful smile and said, "Next weekend should be fun."

"Should be..." Santana said, staring at me. Then she set down her cupcake and looked at me with a serious expression.

"Are you _sure_?" she asked. "I don't want to pressure you."

"You're not." I gave her another coy smile as I stuck out my tongue to run it down the center of the cupcake, intentionally teasing her.

Santana watched me with her teeth pressing into her lower lip. "Okay, then..." she breathed.

Suddenly saddled with a sense of urgency to get back to the car, we devoured the rest of our cupcakes and threw away the wrappers. We walked back to the car holding hands and slid inside. She didn't even bother putting her keys in the ignition, letting them lie in her lap as she turned to me with a sexy smile and cupped my face. I smiled back, leaning toward her, giving her the kiss I knew she wanted, the kiss that was too juicy for a cupcake shop.

Soon our faces were sticky with the frosting residue that had coated our tongues, and our bodies were twisted around the confines of the center console. We had dealt with the physical limitations of making out in her car plenty of times, but this time it seemed exceptionally annoying.

Panting, I broke away and said, "Do you want to get in the back seat?"

Santana exhaled and nodded, not even opening her eyes. She hung there in disbelief for a moment before springing into action, hopping out of her seat and slamming her door closed before the back door opened and she eagerly climbed onto the bench that was her backseat. I followed suit, grateful it was dark and her windows were tinted as we sealed ourselves inside and started kissing again.

Santana's kisses were even more eager and determined, though she never got sloppy. She was a master kisser, to say the least. We'd been kissing for over a month and I hadn't gotten bored yet.

"God, you are so sexy," Santana breathed. "This is going to be a long week."

I smiled but felt a little guilty. I knew Santana was sexually frustrated, especially now that there was an end to her frustration in sight.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, sitting up off her. "Would you rather we not make out like this?"

She fixed her hands against my back, holding me in place. "_No_," she said, urgent. "No, I definitely want to keep doing this." Her breathing was deep and quick, as though she had been jogging a short distance. "Gives me something to work with until I'm cleared."

I smiled at her confession and leaned back down, fitting my mouth to hers. After a moment, she popped her lips off as though I'd kissed her mid-sentence.

"Sorry, does that weird you out?" she asked.

"What?"

"That I think about you..."

I giggled at her and kissed the tip of her nose. "No," I assured. "It's a compliment."

She exhaled in relief and kissed me again, feverish.

And because I knew it was only fair, I nuzzled into her neck and murmured, "I think about you too."

At that Santana shuddered. "Fuck..." she moaned. "I'm calling the clinic first thing in the morning."

Taking that as a cue that we should take some heat off, I pecked her on the cheek and sat up.

"Tell me something about…" I looked playfully around the cab of her car before deciding to go with the elephant in the room. "Sex."

Santana panted, sitting up and smoothing her hair as she collected herself, resigned to holding out for another week.

"I'm planning to have lots of it next weekend," she said, smug.

I smiled, gathering her hair behind her heck for her. "Me too," I said. "With a girl who treats me like a princess."

* * *

x

* * *

Callie had been really sweet to me since I told her about the camera. I came into work the next day to find a cupcake in my locker that she'd decorated the frosting like a breast, complete with a pink M&M for a nipple. I laughed and ate it, glad for the sugar boost before my shift.

Things at Jez felt routine again, which I was glad for. I'd worried it would be tainted by what Dr. Turner had done, and I was relieved to find nothing had changed in the Box. The only thing that was different was I found myself doing more choreography, walking through routines between customers in preparation for the classes I was now teaching.

My first few classes as an instructor at Swivel were great. The students liked me, and while there was bound to be some turnover as people adjusted to me after working with Cassie, it was minor, and the girls promised to bring friends to my classes to fill up the few vacant poles. I wasn't making the kind of money I'd made with Turner, but it was enough to justify permanently modifying my schedule at Jez so I could teach four days a week. I'd been at Jez long enough to have a good relationship with the show manager, so my request was put into effect immediately. It meant I had to work a few morning shifts, but I was okay with that, since I still got my Friday night Booth shift - that was big money - and I still got to dance with Callie a few times a week. I still hadn't decided what to do with my car, but I figured that was a decision for another day.

When Thursday came, I woke up with a strange combination of excitement of dread. Santana and I were having lunch before I took her to the massage parlor down the street to get a gift certificate for Isaiah. Any normal friend would have relished the opportunity to be helpful, but because I liked Santana as so much more than a friend, I knew it was going to be a painful ordeal.

She arrived a few minutes late, hair perfect as always as it draped over the shoulders of her red wool coat. I loved that coat on her. It made her skin and lips and hair glow. It made her even more beautiful, which I thought was impossible. But it did.

She seemed to be in a good mood as we walked to a café down the street. She was especially talkative, which was a relief. My work in the Booth at Jez had taught me how to find things to talk about with any idiot, but talking to a beautiful girl I cared about while at the same time keeping appropriate boundaries in place was more exhausting than catering to the bizarre and perplexing sexual fantasies of my customers.

Santana chattered away about her plans for her upcoming February Break, saying she had thought about going home to Texas, but was going to save her money to go to a writing workshop in Oregon later in the year.

"What kind of workshop?" I asked, blowing on my tomato soup.

"It's a journalism retreat," she shrugged.

"What about your book?" I asked.

Santana gave me a sad smile. "I don't think now is a good time to focus on that..." she said.

I had to wonder if I'd pushed something she wasn't interested in or if she was selling herself short.

"Are you ever going to do it?" I asked, making sure I didn't sound too invested or judgemental.

"Yeah," Santana said. "Just not right now."

I nodded and looked down into my soup, wondering what to talk about next. Luckily Santana asked about how things were going at Swivel, and I was all too eager to fill her in.

"It's fabulous," I said. "I've only taught three classes, and I've already had a few repeat students."

Santana grinned. "That's awesome. Is Cassie happy?"

I shrugged. "She's happy she doesn't have to teach on weekend mornings after working late."

"What about you? Won't you be tired?"

"Yeah," I said with a dismissive shrug. "But her job is harder."

Santana's brow crinkled. "How so?"

"She has direct contact with her customers on the floor. I just stay in my little terrarium and dance. If I'm working the Booth, it's all talk."

Santana nodded. "Your job still sounds impossible to me," she mumbled. "How do you get through the week? I'd always be exhausted or grossed out all the time." Then her eyes widened, realizing she could have offended me. "I mean- not that it's gross. I just, I imagine your customers aren't all attractive and they're probably rude sometimes."

I smiled, appreciative of the delicate way she asked her questions. "When I started, Callie told me the most important thing I needed to learn if I wanted to last was that I needed to commit to spending a lot of time taking care of myself."

"How do you do that?"

"It's different for everyone. I'd say ninety percent of the girls consider weekly pedicures the bare minimum for self care. Our feet are always sore from our shoes, but it's a psychological thing too."

Santana nodded and took a bite of her food, waiting for me to continue.

"I get massages every few weeks. And I think a big part of my self-care is what I do at Swivel, whether I'm teaching or learning. Exercise and dancing are how I take care of myself."

Santana kept nodding pensively as she chewed.

I pointed to my bowl with my spoon. "Food too," I added. "I make sure I have good fuel. I'm lucky Justine is a good cook. And you know, spending time with friends. Getting good sleep. Basic stuff to keep me happy and healthy."

Santana smiled and asked how Justine was doing, and the conversation drifted off towards food, drink, and the weather.

After we cleared our trays and said goodbye to the clerk at the counter, I steeled myself for the task of helping Santana buy her boyfriend a gift. It didn't help when I opened the door to the street and was greeted with a gust of January cold as we headed outside. We trudged back towards my apartment on the way to the massage parlor.

Once we got inside the peaceful waiting area, I didn't feel any better. I was fidgety and resentful that I'd agreed to do this. Why had I offered to bring Santana here? She didn't need me to hold her hand while she bought a gift. It had just been a dumb reason to hang out with her and now my stupidity had put me in an awkward position.

When the attendant came out from behind a curtain and greeted us with his inauthentic spa-smile, I winced. "Helloooo," the man cooed. "How can I help you?"

Santana approached the counter and looked at the small framed spa menu. "I wanted to get a gift certificate for a massage," she said.

"Great," the man said, picking up the menu. "We offer a variety of options. We have a standard fifty-minute Swedish, which is always good. You could go a bit longer or deeper with a ninety minute or a shiatsu. Some people prefer the lighter touch of the hot stone option, which is very popular lately. Personally, I like the Thai massage. Some people say it's better than sex."

Cringing at his casual mention of sex around the most vanilla person in the world, I tried to pretend I was looking at the overpriced lotions and oils on a wooden shelf beside the counter. Santana gave an insincere giggle and looked at the menu as the man offered it back to her. She studied the prices and then said, "Oh, they have a couple's massage." She looked up at me and lowered her voice as she asked, "What do you think?"

I clenched my stomach at the thought of her undressing for a massage next to her boyfriend as I forced myself to smile and nod.

She turned back to the man and said, "I think we'll do that."

The man gave another inauthentic spa-smile. "Great choice. Did you two want to schedule that now?" He glanced at me as he turned to the computer and my whole body hurt.

He thought Santana was buying a couple's massage for Santana and me to have together.

I had known going to buy a gift for Santana to give her boyfriend would be unpleasant, yet I was still overwhelmed with how terrible I felt. The man's assumption that we were a couple was an unexpected punch in the gut.

"Oh, it's not for us," Santana said, mumbling a bit.

I tried to take comfort in the fact that she didn't laugh, but it was hardly a consolation.

"My mistake," the man said.

"I'll just take a gift certificate," Santana said, avoiding looking at me.

She seemed to take forever to purchase her gift certificate while I feigned interest in some organic hypoallergenic massage oil. She asked if I'd help her pick out a few more things and I begrudgingly agreed. Like I did in the Booth sometimes, I put myself on autopilot, avoiding any conscious thought or feeling when at all possible.

By the time we were done picking out a card and a nice tie for Isaiah, it was time for me to go to work. Somehow leaving Santana to go take off my clothes was both relieving and awful. It pointed out the contrast in our lives: she went to classes and on tasteful dates with her boyfriend when we weren't hanging out; I went to an electric pink petri dish and took off my clothes for anyone with a dollar. I almost felt like I needed a transitional activity between Santana and Jez, but I had lingered in her presence for so long, I couldn't stall or I'd be late and get knocked down a pay rung.

Heavy with the realization that she was perfectly committed to her vanilla boyfriend in a way she would never be to me, I let Santana drop me off a block away. Somehow, getting out of her car made arriving at Jez all the more awful.

When I got inside, I set about putting on my fake schoolgirl outfit; the white button-down shirt was no bigger than a bra and rested beneath my breasts, and the skirt was literally three inches long and looked more like a belt. Paired with my Ellies and two neat braids, I looked like a perverted Britney fantasy. I liked the outfit though. It was different than the usual leather or lace most girls wore in the Box.

Jez had the funniest dress code to me. It was the opposite of any school dress code where skirts must be to the knee and straps must be a few inches and no midriff can show. At Jez, our skirt couldn't cover our whole ass or pussy, our nipples had to be visible at all times, and belly button jewelry was as common as earrings.

As I stepped out of my everyday panties, I saw there was a small dark smudge on the fabric. At first I was surprised. With birth control, I always knew when my period was coming and I could plan for it. But since I'd stopped sleeping with Turner, I'd gone off it, so my cycle was all out of whack. Cursing, I looked in my locker for my toiletry kit, which consisted of babywipes, painkillers, tampons, and a pair of scissors to cut off the string. But when I looked in my usual spot, it was nowhere to be seen.

"Shit," I breathed. I turned to the girl changing next to me. "Do you have any tampons?" I asked.

She shook her head, not making eye contact. "I use a cup."

"Dammit," I breathed. I tried the lock on Callie's locker, but it was closed firm and I didn't know the combo.

I rushed into the bathroom, remembering there was a machine that dispensed tampons for a quarter. But after feeding the machine three quarters and getting nothing in return, I hit it with my hand, letting a satisfying _bang_ reverberate through the tiled room.

I was so fucked.

Frantic, I pulled out my phone.

There was a message from Santana:_ I had fun with you today :)_

Trying not to get sucked into her sweetness and forget that she was off limits, I ignored her note and called Justine. Hopefully she would be home and would be able to save me. But she didn't pick up three times in a row.

I was so screwed. I had to be onstage in five minutes. I couldn't leave to go pick up tampons or I'd be knocked down the pay scale again or maybe even fired. I couldn't lose my job over my period.

But I also couldn't work with blood dripping out of me. My anxiety about my dilemma settled into my stomach, and I started feeling overwhelmed.

I tried to calm myself. Where had I left my toiletry kit? I realized after just a minute of chastising myself for removing it that I had brought it home to refill a few weeks ago and hadn't put it back in my bag. I could even picture it on the top of my dresser next to my deodorant and bowl of bobby pins.

Desperate, I called Santana.

"Hey!" she chirped.

"Hey," I said, trying to keep my panic low. "Are you busy?"

"No, why? Aren't you at work?"

"Yeah, but I just got my period and I don't have any of my stuff. No one else is in the dressing room and I'm screwed."

"Oh," Santana said. "I always wondered what strippers do about that."

I gave a pained chuckle. "We cut the strings off our tampons."

"Makes sense," Santana said. There was a brief pause before she said, "Do you need me to bring you something?"

I let out a relieved sigh. I couldn't believe I'd actually called her to ask her to bring me tampons. It was embarrassing. And that's coming from someone who is hard to embarrass.

"If it's not too much trouble," I said.

"Sure, no problem. What kind do you want?"

"Just regular tampons and some Motrin. I'll pay you back."

"I'll drop it off in the next twenty minutes. Will that be okay?"

"Yeah," I said, hopeful I could fake something until she showed up.

"Do I just go to the front desk?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'll tell the attendant I'm expecting something."

"Perfect."

"Thank you so, so much," I said, sighing in relief.

"No problem at all," Santana said. I could hear her smile.

She was such a sweet girl.

I finished getting dressed, jerry-rigging a temporary solution to my flow problem that I hoped would last for the next twenty minutes. Then I steeled myself and clopped up the stairs into the Box.

The next fifteen minutes were the longest I'd ever spent in the Box. I was so nervous about bleeding on something, but luckily I didn't. After what felt like five hours, there was a tap on the door and I raced over to it, slinking down the stairs to receive the bag the attendant was holding out to me. I was disappointed I wouldn't get to see Santana, but I realized that I was in my Violet costume and I didn't really want her to see me with my tits out - not because I had any qualms about my tits, but because I knew it would make her uncomfortable.

The bag the attendant handed me was heavy for what I'd asked for. I frowned and opened it, peering inside.

Tucked next to the tampons and Motrin was a bottle of water, a bar of chocolate, and a big, gooey brownie from Starbucks.

At that, I burst into tears. I liked Santana so, so much, and her sweetness felt like torture. I sat in the dressing room crying for ten minutes before I wound my way back into the Box, not even caring if I got in trouble.


	12. Shatter

A/N: I'm even more excited than usual to post this chapter. For those on Tumblr, I've been trolling about this chapter for weeks, and I hope it doesn't disappoint. Be sure to come join the discussion on my page afterwards, and weigh in on the polls linked there.

And as always, thanks to JJ for her A+ editing work.

* * *

**Chapter 12: Shatter**

* * *

So here's what you missed on Dandelion: Bar!Britt and Santana made up and had really sweet morning sex followed by singing dorky songs and making pancakes, and then Santana took Britt to the movies where they snuggled together, but when Britt tried to take Santana's hand in the parking lot afterward, Santana slapped her hand away. Lab!Britt and Santana came back from their super romantic castle date and Britt decided she was ready to have sex with Santana, and they're both excited and can't wait to get it on as soon as Santana gets tested. Violet!Britt helped Santana buy a present for Santana's five year anniversary with her boyfriend, and later when Santana did something small but sweet for her, Brittany broke down crying because she likes Santana so, so much. And that's what you missed!

* * *

I followed Santana to her car in shock, feeling like a dog with its tail between its legs. Why had she slapped me away like that?

Maybe she was just the most confusing person in the world. I knew she was temperamental, but I didn't think she would be cruel to me like that.

She couldn't be cruel. Could she? We'd been singing silly songs to each other in bed just a few hours before. Now I didn't know what to believe. Which version of her was real?

I let myself stew in my confusion the whole way back to her apartment. It was an awful, sickening quiet that made the drive feel hours long, when really it was just ten minutes. Santana busied herself flicking through songs on her iPod at stoplights, humming to ease the awful tension.

As I sat in her passenger seat, awkwardly shifting my legs and looking around, I started to feel angry. Why was it always her that got to determine what we did and didn't do? Why was sex always on her terms? Why was she acting goofy with me one minute and repulsed by me the next? The anger started to simmer under my skin.

When we got to her apartment, my instinct was to run back to my apartment and get away from the awful feeling I got around her. But that hadn't fixed anything before. I needed to understand her. More than that, I needed her to know I was angry. I had a tendency to let my anger fester until I exploded, and I wanted to take a different approach with her.

So I followed her into her apartment. She seemed surprised, but she didn't object.

I closed the door behind me, my purse barely making a thud as I tossed it on a pile of laundry by the door.

"What's going on?" I asked, holding my hands up in surrender. "We hang out every day, we have a great time, we have mind-blowing sex, but sometimes you won't give me the time of day. I don't get it."

Santana crossed her arms, bristling. "I can't give you attention every minute of every day. That's unreasonable."

"I know," I said, trying to stay gentle so she wouldn't retreat any further. "But when I tried to take your hand just now you practically slapped me."

Santana frowned. "I didn't _slap_ you," she whined. Her shoulders hunched as she raised her arms higher over her breasts. "I just didn't want to hold your hand."

"That's fine, but you didn't have to be so mean about it."

"Not everyone can be all sweet and nice like you all the time." Her words were in stark contrast to her venom-laced voice.

"I'm just saying that sometimes you do things that hurt my feelings."

"Well _sorry_," Santana snarled, giving an exaggerated, indifferent shrug.

I was stunned. This was the meanest I'd ever seen her. I was silent for a moment.

"Why are you being like this?" I asked, holding my hands open at my sides to show that I wasn't holding any weapons. "I just want to talk, and you're acting like I'm asking you to commit murder or someth-"

"_I'm not out_!" Santana snapped.

I was shocked, like a rubber band had snapped back and hit me in the face.

"What?" I whispered.

"I'm not out," she echoed, glaring at me. Her voice was cold and bitter as she continued. "I know you're happy in your little love-who-you-love hippie utopia, but some of us don't have that luxury."

I was frozen for a moment as I processed what she had said.

I thought everyone who knew Santana knew she liked girls. It was one of the most obvious things about her. At least to me.

"To your parents, you mean?" I asked.

"To anyone except the girls I've been with," she muttered. Then her voice dropped to almost a whisper, and she said, "No one knows I'm gay."

How was it possible that Santana was completely closeted beyond her bedroom? She was too confident, too practiced in her flannel Casanova ways to be closeted.

And yet she was.

"Oh..." I murmured, feeling my body go soft with sorrow.

"Yeah," Santana said, arms still snug under her breasts.

"I didn't realize."

Santana looked away and raised to her eyebrows, as if to tell me it should have been obvious.

Suddenly everything about us made sense. Why she was so anxious all the time, why she'd slapped my hand away, why she was most authentic in bed.

Looking at her guarded stature, knowing the sorrow and loneliness that lived within her now, I had the sudden, overwhelming desire to comfort her and remind her she wasn't alone. I stepped toward her but grew cautious when she seemed to bristle.

"It's okay," I whispered, lifting my arms to her. I held them there until I saw her arms drop to her sides, laying down her armor. Then I enveloped her, drawing her to my chest and holding her gently. "It's okay if you're not out," I hushed.

She remained rigid for a moment, as though I might try to crush her or shove her away as I held her. But gradually she softened, and I hoped she felt relief at finally telling me the truth.

I thought back to what it had been like for me to come out. In high school, one afternoon when we were snuggling in his bed, I'd spontaneously told Damon that I thought girls were sexy. He adjusted his arm under my neck, smoothing hair away from my cheek as he smiled and said, "Girls are very sexy." It was only after he said that I realized I'd been nervous to tell him. Even though I knew he'd be okay with it - his older brother was gay and he loved his brother - it still was a big deal to say it out loud for the first time.

But it had been different then. I was committed to him and imagined the rest of our lives together. My attraction to girls was theoretical in practice, and for all I knew, would be forever. We were young and thoughts of a threesome weren't entertained for more than a fleeting moment. I wouldn't have wanted one, even if he'd been bold enough to bring it up. I don't think I'm really a threesome type of girl. I like sex a lot, but sometimes even with one person it can be overwhelming. The thought of two people touching me, having to balance the giving and taking three ways, seems like too much.

When Damon and I broke up, I didn't think of being with _anyone_ for a long time, regardless of gender. Maggie appeared right when I needed her, and she was wonderful. She was already out, so by simply holding her hand on the quad, I outed myself without having to announce anything. I don't know how I would have told my friends otherwise. They just kind of figured it out.

Kimi and my parents were another story. I had to tell them with words. I don't remember what I said exactly, only that I told my mom when we were peeling potatoes for Thanksgiving. I can still feel the grit from the potato skins on my hands when I think about that conversation, but it wasn't a difficult one to have. I just told her I was dating someone named Maggie and she said she was glad to hear I was dating again. We didn't talk about what it meant or how I identified. When I told Kimi later, she was more taken aback. She wanted to know how long I'd been a lesbian and if Damon knew. I told her I wasn't a lesbian, I was bisexual, and that of course Damon had known. She calmed down and asked if I'd told mom. When I told her our mom hadn't even blinked, Kimi realized she had overreacted. She gave me a hug and echoed my mom's sentiment that she was glad I was dating again. We went on to have a normal Thanksgiving dinner and my sexuality didn't come up again other than the few times my mom asked how Maggie was.

I didn't tell my dad directly. At that point my parents were good friends again and I figured my mom would tell him. This proved true when, right before Christmas, he asked if I'd be bringing my girlfriend home with me. I loved his gentle way of showing his acceptance, especially since he and I didn't talk about much besides my studies. I told him Maggie and I had broken up, and his reaction was, "That's a shame. I would have liked to meet her."

As I thought about my coming out experience, I realized how easy I'd had it. I'd known every time I told someone that they would be accepting or at the very least polite. But not everyone had that. From the way Santana was acting, I was certain she knew she'd get a less favorable reaction if she came out. I knew nothing about her family or friends, but part of me wanted to apologize for them. Whatever they'd done to make her so afraid and ashamed of who she was was unfair. I felt like it was my responsibility, as one of the only people who knew she was gay, to make up for that.

So I held her tight to me, hoping she could feel how my heart was expanding toward her as we embraced. I put my hand on the back of her head, easing her even closer, hoping she would rest on my sturdy shoulder. I wanted to be that shoulder for her for as long as she would have me. To my relief, she laid her head on my shoulder and I felt her torso expand and contract as she took slow, shaky breaths.

After we embraced for long enough that I felt all the tension leave her body, I pulled back and brushed her hair away from her face. She didn't make eye contact, but I could see she was receptive to maybe a little compliment.

"You were so confident when you were trying to pick me up that I assumed you were out. That confidence is sexy, you know."

She gave a faint, forced laugh and kept her eyes down.

"I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable," I said.

And I really meant it. I never wanted to make Santana uncomfortable. Especially now that I knew the source of her fragility. All I wanted was to cushion her in whatever way I could.

"From now on, no more PDA," I said, tucking some hair behind her ear. "If you're uncomfortable, just tell me. Scratch your nose or blink really fast or something."

Santana studied me, seeming surprised.

"It doesn't bother you?" she asked.

I tilted my head, confused. "Why would it bother me?"

Santana gave a timid shrug. "You just seem like you want someone to be handsy with all the time."

Surprised that Santana would interpret my desire to be close as a desire to be publicly affectionate, I gave her a playful frown. "As long as we can be handsy in private, I'm fine," I said.

Santana looked up at me with a terrified, helpless expression.

I drew her to my chest again, finally understanding why she hadn't been able to formalize our relationship. I knew there was more than sex between us. She wouldn't take me to the movies and feed me sexy popcorn or make an effort to make up when we fought if what we had was just about sex. Knowing the source of her hesitation now, I decided to soothe that worry for her.

"You don't have to shout anything from the rooftops," I said. "You're special to me even if all you do is whisper."

At that, Santana let out a relieved exhale. When she spoke, her voice was almost too quiet to hear. "You're special to me too," she said.

Feeling like all Santana's mystery was finally stripped away, I squeezed her to my chest again, silently promising not to do anything that would frighten her.

* * *

x

* * *

Since I had started dating Santana, my job had gotten even more boring, if that was possible. The days seemed to double in length, the humming of the air conditioner vents over my desk droning louder and more incessant with each passing minute. I took to playing the radio quietly from my computer just to feel like there was some life in the office, but even that didn't make the day go faster.

The trouble was that now I had something to look forward to after work. Santana and I were too excited about dating to see each other only on weekends; she took me out of dinner or a movie or a comedy show at least once during the week, and on the days we didn't see each other, we texted back and forth as much as we could. We'd even started talking on the phone most nights, something that only happens when you really like someone because dear god the phone is terrifying. But knowing it was Santana on the other end of the line made it less scary.

Monday afternoon I was sitting at my desk struggling to keep the data in front of me from swimming when Dr. Turner leaned into my office, rapping his knuckles on the door frame. "You have a delivery," he said with a smirk.

Surprised, I got up and followed him out into the main office, and then into his. When I entered, I saw a colorful arrangement of flowers sitting on his desk. It was even more beautiful than the first bouquet I'd been sent. I still didn't know who'd sent that one, but it didn't matter because I _knew_ this bouquet was from Santana. I couldn't hold back a dopey smile, even though Dr. Turner was there and I had been making an effort to avoid him.

"Seems you're quite the popular lady lately," he said, his voice syrupy and coy. "You must be doing something right."

I tried to brush his comment off, picking up my flowers to take them back to their rightful place on my desk. As I turned around, Dr. Turner said, "It's good to know why things didn't work out with Vance."

I was caught off guard by the reminder of Dr. Turner's stupid nephew.

"What?" I asked.

Dr. Turner just chuckled and turned back to his computer. "Nothing," he said.

If he had been anyone but my boss, I would have pressed to get more information about what he meant. But he was Dr. Turner, and I wasn't sure how I felt about him anymore. He had come down off the pedestal, and I was grateful for that. Keeping him there had been exhausting.

Confused, I took the flowers back to my desk and closed my eyes as I buried my nose in them. They smelled wonderful, but not half as good as Santana. I turned them about, admiring the way they'd been arranged and realizing this bouquet must have cost a pretty penny. As I turned the vase, I saw a small white envelope tucked between two blossoms. I pulled it out, seeing my name written in Santana's handwriting on the front. I turned it over and saw the flap was already opened, a ripped piece of the envelope stuck to the adhesive flap where it had been torn.

Dr. Turner had opened it.

I cringed, hoping the message inside hadn't been too revealing. I pulled it out and winced as I read,

_Tulips are pretty but your lips are my favorite lips. You're amazing and I can't wait to kiss your pretty face again,_

_XOXO Santana_

At once I was both flattered, embarrassed, and angry.

I adored Santana for being so sweet and generous with her affection.

But I didn't like how Dr. Turner knew I was dating a girl now.

And I especially didn't like his commentary on the matter. _Good to know why things didn't work out with Vance_, huh?

How dare Dr. Turner invade my privacy and read something meant for my eyes only? How dare he take away any ounce of the magic Santana was trying to create?

And how dare he perve on my relationship with someone who was so much better than him in every way?

I hated how he had corrupted Santana's sweet gesture.

When I got off work, I felt oddly fatigued by a new sense of dread. I knew it was because I had to call Santana and ask her not to send me flowers anymore, and that was a delicate conversation to have with anyone. Since we were in such a great place, I didn't want to mess it up. But I had to tell her the truth. That's what intimacy is.

So when I got home, I slunk into my bedroom and called her. Part of me hoped that it would go to voicemail and the conversation would be delayed a few hours, but the other part of me wanted to get it over with so we could move on toward more fun things.

Like how we were probably going to have sex soon.

The call rang twice before I heard some scuffling and then Santana's smiling voice. "Hey baby," she said. "How was your day?"

"It was okay," I said, trying not to sound too nervous. "How was yours?

"Just work. But I was thinking about you all day, so it went quick."

I smiled, feeling pained that she was in such a great mood when I had to deliver the blow of asking her to tread lighter around my work.

"I'm on my way to the clinic now," she said with a coy tone. "But I was hoping we could grab a drink afterwards."

I felt myself rush with nerves. She was actually on her way to get tested, which meant that she could be cleared within twenty-four hours, which meant that tomorrow night I could be naked with her. While that had sounded perfect the day before, today it sounded scary. Her enthusiasm, her unrelenting adoration, her abundant gestures of affection for the world to see were suddenly smothering. That wasn't a good way to feel before having sex. Sex is supposed to be fun and easy. But in that moment, it seemed overwhelming.

"Oh," I said. "Um… sure."

"Don't act too excited," Santana teased.

"No, that sounds great," I said, pushing myself to sound enthusiastic. "Let me just change first."

"Take your time," Santana said. "I'll call you when I'm headed over."

And for some reason when I hung up, I was seized with anxiety. It was the kind of anxiety that felt paralyzing, like changing out of my work clothes into something suitable for a wine bar was an impossible feat.

Why was I so freaked out about going out for a drink with her?

I reasoned with myself that it was normal to not always be excited to see someone. Sure, dating Santana was the best thing about my life right now, but I was allowed to have days where I was tired or wanted to be alone.

Right?

Still, I dragged myself out to get a drink with her. She was sweet and deserved to feel wanted. When I arrived, she already had two glasses of wine waiting for us. She gave me a smothering hug and a sweet kiss on the cheek before tapping the cotton ball taped to the pit of her elbow. Her smile was rife with implication when she said, "Hopefully all goes well, and we'll be all set."

"Hopefully," I said, swallowing.

My panic must have wavered through my voice, because Santana grew concerned as she settled onto a bar stool.

"Is everything okay?" she asked.

Wanting to divert the conversation away from sex entirely, I decided that talking about the flowers was easier than talking about having sex with her. I didn't understand why I was scared. I just was.

"Yeah," I said.

"Are you sure?"

Knowing that I wasn't a good liar, I caved. "Everything's fine. There was something I wanted to talk to you about though."

"Oh?"

I took a deep breath, steeling myself. "I got your flowers today. Thank you."

Santana grinned, poking me in the side playfully. "They're actually from me this time."

I gave a shaky laugh to not seem too uptight. "The thing is… I kind of wanted to ask you not to do that anymore."

"Not send you flowers?"

"Yeah."

There was a moment of silence as Santana set down her drink. She looked offended when she finally spoke. "Can I ask why?"

I didn't want to tell her the truth, but I knew I had to. "My boss read the card before he told me I had a delivery."

"He read the card?" Santana asked, frowning.

"Yeah," I said.

"And?"

"And now I feel really uncomfortable around him."

"Why?"

Feeling guilty and ashamed, I said, "He made a comment… I mean, it was probably nothing… I just don't want him to be perving on me or us..." I trailed off, not wanting to give Santana more ammunition to fuel her anti-Turner crusade. I wasn't sure if I was ashamed of my boss or of my discomfort. "Don't get me wrong, I'm totally happy to be with you, but I don't want my boss-"

"No I get it," Santana said, sounding dejected and angry. "Jesus Christ, Britt, you work for a world-class asshole."

"I know…" I mumbled. "And I appreciate the gesture so much, but… can you not send flowers or anything to my work?"

Santana let out a heavy sigh. "Sure," she muttered. "Anything else?"

Feeling heavy with guilt, I said quietly, "Have dinner with me this weekend?"

Santana's anger faded and she said, "Of course." There was a gentle pause as she put her hand on my knee and said, "I was planning to take you out to dinner before we had sex anyway."

"You were?"

"Of course," Santana said, looking surprised. "I'm not going to stop wooing you once we start having sex. The wooing is half the fun."

Feeling the edge of my anxiety crumble a bit, I leaned toward Santana, giving her a playful wrinkle of my nose as I said, "Good."

Relieved to have completed my task for the evening, I asked if Santana was writing anything interesting this week. She told me about a profile she was writing on Community Supported Agriculture, and we eased back into our usual dynamic.

Still, I couldn't completely shake my nerves. Something felt too much or too intense or too precarious. It was probably me. I just needed to relax.

But when I talked to Justine about it later, she had other ideas.

"You just need to get laid, Britt," she smirked. "You've been so uptight this past year."

"It's work-related," I argued. "It has nothing to do with sex."

Justine gave a shrug that meant she didn't want to argue about it. "I'm just a little confused. Didn't you sleep with Vance after just a few dates? And here you've got your dream girl wrapped around your finger, and you've got your panties hitched up to your belly button."

"First of all, that sounds painful," I said, trying not to take offence at her implication that I was being prude. I wasn't being prude; I was being cautious. "Second of all, you met Avery after living here for three weeks, so don't pretend you're clued into the singles scene."

"Touché," Justine said, tipping her head.

"And third of all, Vance ditched me after I slept with him."

Justine gave me a sympathetic pout. "I know, babe. But I would bet my parents' retirement money that Santana won't do that to you."

I sighed, knowing she was right. "I know," I mumbled. "I'm just… cautious."

"Cautious is fine," she said, putting her hand on my knee. "You do whatever makes you feel okay. I just want you to be happy."

I put my hand over hers, appreciative. "I'm happy," I said. "And I'm cautious. Santana is an intense person, you know? I just want to pace myself."

Justine nodded. "I'd wager you love her intensity most of the time."

"Most of the time. Sometimes it's scary."

"Scary and exciting are sometimes that same thing."

Her reminder that nerves were sometimes a good thing relaxed me. I remembered that first times were supposed to be awkward and scary. Maybe if I reminded myself of that, I'd feel better about the coming weekend.

But when Santana called me the following day on her lunch break, my nerves spiked again.

"Hey, sexy," she said. "I have good news."

"Oh?" I said, trying as hard as I could to flirt back with her.

"All my results came back negative," she said with an excited sing-song voice.

"Good to hear," I said, forcing myself to smile. I was glad she hadn't gotten any surprising news, but I now felt cornered. We were going to have sex in the next few days, barring an act of God. I felt like I'd gotten on a drop ride that I couldn't get off.

"I have a work thing tonight, but do you want to have dinner tomorrow?" she asked. Her intention was totally clear.

I felt cornered. How could I buy time to figure out why I was so freaked out without hurting her feelings? I felt like a terrible girlfriend.

"Sure," I said.

"Where you do you want to go?" Santana asked.

"Um… I don't know," I said. "Anywhere is fine."

"Want me to surprise you?" Santana said.

Relieved, I said, "Sure." The fewer decisions I had to make, the better.

"You got it," Santana said. "I'm excited."

Somehow, the eagerness I heard in her voice made me even more nervous. I chatted politely for a few minutes before I excused myself to eat and get back to work.

My guilt and anxiety were snowballing into Olympic proportions at this point. I had no idea what to do about it. I just knew that I couldn't wait to get home and curl up on my couch where I was beholden to no one but myself and my best friend.

The following day, my anxiety hadn't subsided. I was starting to feel not only anxious, but full of dread. How was I going to get through our date without disappointing someone? If I pushed myself to have sex with her and later regretted it, I'd be disappointing myself, and if I didn't have sex, I would disappoint her. I had half made up my mind to tell her I wasn't ready when I felt a weird pinching in my lower stomach. It took me only a moment to realize what it was.

I got up and went to the bathroom and breathed a sigh of relief when I realized it was exactly what I thought it was. I'd gotten my period, and thus relieved all the pressure I'd put on myself. It was the act of God I'd been hoping for, in a way. All my tension faded and the rest of the day passed quickly. Somehow the discomfort of cramps and bloating weren't as uncomfortable as they usually were.

There was only one thing I had to do to feel calm. I called Santana to warn her that the following evening wouldn't be what she was expecting.

"I have bad news," I said.

"Oh?"

"I just got my period," I mumbled.

There was a pause before she said, "Oh." There was an even longer pause before she said, "I mean… I don't really mind."

Feeling my anxiety spike dramatically, I said, "Well… I don't really want our first time to look like a crime scene…"

Santana let out a quiet giggle. "That's fine. I understand. We'll just go out to dinner like we planned and then we can snuggle up and watch a movie. Sound okay?"

Sighing in relief, I said with total honesty, "That sounds perfect."

"Okay," Santana hummed. "You know I love spending time with you no matter what."

"I know," I said.

My anxiety had made me temporarily forget that this wasn't just about us having sex. She liked me even when all my clothes were on. Somehow, that was both comforting and perplexing.

When I hung up, I felt like my dynamic with Santana returned to its usual happy flirtation. After work the following day I went home and prepared for our date like usual. I put on a slightly less boring pencil skirt and a comfortable blouse, rifling through my jewelry for something she hadn't seen me wear yet. My outfit was nice enough for whatever restaurant she had picked, and comfortable enough for couch snuggling afterwards.

Santana looked equally comfortable when she came to pick me up. Perhaps the toll of working full days had exhausted us into comfort, or maybe we were more comfortable with each other than I remembered. I felt like my hormones and nerves were distorting everything.

As we ate, we talked easily as air and stole bites off each others' plates. She made me laugh like usual and I was settled back into just feeling good around her without feeling pressured. I remembered that I liked dating her so much. I liked dating her more than I had ever liked dating anyone.

"I'm sorry our plans for this evening were foiled," I said.

"It's okay," Santana said. "It'll happen."

I nodded, but still felt guilty in a way. "I just feel bad about making you wait… It's like one thing after another…"

Santana looked at me with an unreadable expression for a moment before she took a quick breath and said, "You know how wine tasters sample wine, Britt?"

Confused about her change of subject, I shook my head.

"When you're sampling wine, you don't just dive into it. First, you make sure your palate is cleansed. Then you let the wine aerate for a while, let it release its full flavor. Then you study the hue. Smell the bouquet. You swirl it in your glass as you search for hints to its subtle flavors. Could it be citrus, oak, chocolate, floral? A combination? You take it in as a multi-sensory experience, because each vintage is one of a kind. And then, once you've gotten to know it for a while, contemplated what makes it unique, taken time to appreciate it, _then_ you drink it." Santana paused, then gave me a shy smile as she slid her hand across the table, reaching for mine. "Britt, you are a very special wine. Consuming you isn't the point."

I blushed from my neck to the tips of my ears, overwhelmed by Santana's sexy cleverness.

"Though I have to admit, you do look edible tonight," she added with a mock guilty expression as she eyed my cleavage.

Blushing, I giggled. I wanted to lean across the table and kiss her, but I settled for taking her hand and holding it as I took another bite of my food. Grinning, she squeezed my hand and took a sip of her wine.

As we continued eating, I became aware of a woman a few tables away who was staring at me. She was middle-aged with wavy red hair and a contemptuous look on her face. She narrowed her eyes between bites of her salad, rarely engaging with the person whose back was to me at her table. I grew uncomfortable, wondering if she was glaring at Santana and me because we were holding holds. Was this my first experience of homophobia? It may have just been a stare, but it felt threatening. It made my food taste colder.

I was about to say something to Santana when she let go of my hand, set her napkin on the table, and said she'd be right back. She got up and headed toward the bathroom. I used the opportunity to look over at the staring woman and try to figure out what her deal was. Did she know me from somewhere? Did she think I was someone else? Were there really people who would glare at two women on date in _San Francisco_? I was so confused.

To my surprise, the woman got up and walked toward me. I tensed, wondering what she was going to say. But instead of continuing her death glare, she gave me a bright smile, as though she were greeting a friend.

"Hi," she said. "I'm sorry I've been looking at you funny all night. I wasn't sure who you were."

"Oh. Uh, hi, I'm Brittany."

"Hi, Brittany," the woman said. Her tone grew saccharine as she extended her hand to me. Perplexed, I shook it.

"I just wanted you to know that your date here - she is your date, right?" the woman asked, gesturing toward Santana's empty chair.

Nervous but brave, I nodded.

"Yeahh..." the woman said, her tone growing apologetic. "Watch out for her. She's a snake in the grass who will play you like a hand of cards."

The woman tipped her head, keeping her smile static before she turned and walked back to her seat, picked up her purse, and left the restaurant.

I was stunned. Who was that woman and why did she think it was her business to inform me that Santana would "play me like a hand of cards"? I sat there frowning into half of my pasta until Santana came back.

"Hey," she chirped, picking up her napkin and settling back into her seat. "You have to check out the bathroom before we go, it has the coolest sink ever."

"Oh?" I asked, trying not to sound alarmed.

Santana smiled and finished the final bites of her meal.

I was suddenly suspicious of everything about her. She had seemed too good to be true at first, and now someone had told me she was.

I didn't realize how awkward I must have looked until Santana said something.

"Are you okay?" she asked, tilting her head around to try to make eye contact. "You look like you got spooked."

Squirming, I looked around for an excuse. "I'm fine."

"Okay..." Santana said, clearly skeptical. "Do you want dessert?"

I shook my head. What I really wanted was to go home and sort out what that strange woman had said to me. What did she mean that Santana would play me like a hand of cards? Did she mean Santana would cheat? Use me for something? Lie? Steal? Do what Vance had done? Without more information, my mind started wandering to the darkest corners of possibility.

"Okay..." Santana said, sounding concerned and a bit upset. "Do you want to come over for a drink? We could make it cocoa if you're not feeling well. I think I have brownie mix too, if that sounds good."

I shook my head again. "I think... I think I want to go home," I mumbled.

As I thought about the comforts of home, I realized that what I really wanted was to talk to Justine. She'd help me figure out what to do. I didn't ask for her guidance often, but when I did, she always took my dilemmas to heart.

I just really needed my best friend to help calm me down because Santana couldn't.

"Okay," Santana said, looking around the restaurant. "Let me flag down the waiter."

Luckily our waiter arrived at that precise minute and Santana fished out her credit card on the spot. I didn't even argue with her paying for the whole meal because I just wanted it to be over so I could go home where things were simple.

Santana turned back to me. "Doing anything fun tomorrow?"

In truth, I had been half planning to spend time with her, but now I didn't know. "I think Justine and I were going to do something tomorrow night," I mumbled, hoping I was vague yet specific enough that Santana would buy it.

She nodded and said, "Good. She's a good friend."

"She is," I agreed. I wanted Justine to be there right then to diffuse the uncomfortable tension that was rising with time.

The waiter brought the billholder back, and Santana signed the check before picking up her purse. She held out her arm to me as we left the restaurant, and I took it for as long as was necessary to be polite before retracting it.

We got into the car, and she quietly asked me if I wanted to choose the music. I turned the radio to a rap station and turned the volume up louder than we usually had it. We didn't usually put on music in the car because we would just talk and talk and talk and sometimes miss our turns because we were giggling over nothing. But I wanted the music there now, and I wanted it loud enough that we wouldn't have to talk.

After a few seconds of heavy beats Santana glanced at me with a funny expression on her face, amused by my choice of music. Her face seemed to say, _Since when do you listen to rap?_ I just glanced away and bobbed my head, pretending to be interested in the scenery.

When we got a few blocks away from my house, Santana turned the music down until the beat was muted.

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asked.

"Yeah, just feeling a little off," I said. She wasn't prying into my vague answers tonight, so I hoped she'd take that at face value.

"Cramps?"

"No."

Santana frowned and kept driving. Then she took a sharp breath and said, hesitant, "Did something happen while I was in the bathroom?"

I bit my lips. I didn't know what to say. Something had happened while she was in the bathroom. A strange woman had shattered the perfect glass of our relationship, and I had no idea what to do with it.

I must have paused too long to figure out what to say because Santana added, as though in apology, "I only ask because you looked uncomfortable when I got back to the table."

I took a deep breath, wishing we had made it just two blocks further so I could give a short, non-answer answer and fly up into the refuge of my house and Justine's presence.

I must have paused for too long again, because Santana said, "I'll take that as a yes."

Now I was really cornered.

"Britt, this is driving me nuts, just tell me."

Her sudden demand made me cave, and I mumbled, "Someone came up to our table and kinda ruined the evening for me."

At this point Santana was pulling up in front of my house.

"What, like a homophobic slur or something?"

"No..."

At this point Santana was so frustrated, she lifted her hands off the wheel and said, "Jesus Christ, Britt, whatever it was, just spit it out!"

Scared by her anger, I raised my voice and blurted, "She said to watch out for you because you're a snake in the grass who will play me like a hand of cards!"

Santana's foot slammed on the break and we lurched to a stop at the curb. Her head jerked toward me and her eyes went wide. "She used those words?"

Feeling heat creep up my face, I nodded and looked down at my shoes.

"Did she have red hair?" Santana asked.

I nodded again.

Santana's rigid shoulders deflated as she let out a heavy sigh. "Fuck..." she muttered.

There was a long period of silence as she looked over her other shoulder at the cars parked across the street. She made no move to shut off the engine like she usually did so we could have our routine makeout. Then she turned back to me and said, "Will you give me a chance to explain why someone would say that about me?"

She was so agitated, I was getting overwhelmingly anxious. I had already been uncomfortable, but now the energy in the car was stifling. I wanted to get out, but I couldn't do that when Santana was so worked up. I did still care for her. So much.

So I nodded.

"Okay - okay. Do you want to talk here? In your place? At mine?"

Not wanting to enter into a less escapable situation than we were in, I looked around and said, "We can talk here."

"Right," Santana said, her breathing unsteady as she turned off the car. "Okay."

She leaned back in her seat, looking at the roof of the car as though she were overwhelmed at the prospect of telling me whatever she had to tell me.

"I'm not proud of this, okay?"

It wasn't a promising start to a story.

Santana took a deep breath that actually did steady her. She placed her left hand at the bottom of the steering wheel and faced forward, avoiding looking at me.

"When I had just finished journalism school, I moved to L.A. to do an internship with the L.A. Times. I had big aspirations for journalistic fame."

I sat and listened, watching as she surrendered herself to telling me the truth. I hoped she wouldn't lose her nerve. I needed her to tell me whatever she'd been hiding, or otherwise I wouldn't trust her again.

"I needed something to pay the bills and the Times internship paid crap, so I adopted an alias and started moonlighting at a trashy magazine. Over the course of the year I was there, I ran into a lot of young celebrities on assignments. I got friendly with a few of them. And I got more than friendly with one of them."

Sensing where this was going, I leaned forward and listened.

Santana glanced at me nervously. "You've probably heard of her. Callie Wilson?"

My jaw dropped. Santana had dated an established Hollywood starlet. "You dated Callie Wilson?" I asked, disbelieving.

Then I thought about the logistics of that, wondering how I hadn't known that Callie Wilson dated girls. I always saw her on the covers of tabloids with guys.

Then I recalled something Justine had told me about her being one of the closeted Hollywood starlets who batted for my team and wondered if it was true.

Santana gave a nervous chuckle looked into her lap. "Yeah. For six months."

There was a pause before I muttered, "I can't compete with movie stars."

Santana gave another nervous laugh and shook her head, "Oh, you can. You're more real, you know? Celebrities are... something else."

She trailed off and I got the impression that Callie and Santana hadn't ended their relationship on good terms.

"Anyway, things got weird, and I had an opportunity to get in with one of the execs at the magazine who had connections to more notable publications. I shouldn't have taken that opportunity, but... I did."

"What do you mean?" I asked, confused.

Santana took a quick, deep breath through her nose and glanced up at me, nervous and ashamed. "I outed Callie in hopes that I'd get a good job out of the scoop. That woman that you talked to was her assistant at the time."

Suddenly realizing why Santana was so ashamed, I pulled back.

She had vindictively outed someone for personal gain, knowing it could destroy Callie's career. She had done to her ex the exact same thing her college roommate had done to her.

What had she been thinking? Was she so ambitious that she was willing to throw other people under the bus to clear a path for herself? Was there no respect for the intimacy she shared with others, however stale?

Would she betray me the way she'd betrayed Callie?

"How could you do that?" I gasped.

Santana put her hands to her head to block out her shame. "I don't know," she winced. "I'm still so conflicted about it."

"Conflicted _how_?"

Santana gave a guilty shrug. "Outing her did exactly what I hoped it would. I love my job."

"Does the Chronicle go looking for people who sell other people out?"

Santana realized how strongly I opposed what she'd done and pulled away, defensive. "It's called scooping. I don't know a single journalist at my level who hasn't done it."

"But _still_," I said, still in shock.

"I know," Santana mumbled. "I know what I did was awful. And I do regret it. Kind of."

"_Kind of_?" I asked, incredulous.

Santana held up her hands. "I love my job, Britt. Sometimes you have to play dirty to get what you want."

My mind flashed back to the flowers she'd sent me and I wondered if she'd sent them knowing Turner would open the card.

Santana was not the person I thought she was. She was exactly what the woman at dinner had said she was: a snake in the grass who would play me like a hand of cards. I had been right to be cautious. I was so glad I'd waited to sleep with her.

I looked her right in the eye and said, "What fucked-up games would you play to get _me_, assuming that's something you want?"

Santana's face fell and she looked like I'd kicked her in the shins. "None," she said, her voice soft and hurt. "I'm not playing any games with you."

Needing to further justify my reaction to what she told me, I put my hand on the door handle. "I'm not out to my coworkers. Would you out me to get a raise?"

"No!" Santana said, as though the thought appalled her. "Britt, I would never sell you out. Callie was just - Callie was different."

"How?" I demanded, reinforcing my grip on the door handle. "She and I are both human beings who put trust in you."

Santana looked at me, wavering for a moment until I saw tears glistening in her eyes. It felt manipulative, like she wanted me to crack and tell her that what she'd done had just been a mistake and that we all made mistakes.

"She cheated on me."

"So that makes it okay to potentially ruin her career?"

"I told you I wasn't proud of it," she whispered.

"That doesn't take away what you did."

"I know," Santana said, whining a bit as she fought back her tears. "Britt, please don't hate me."

She looked so pitiful and scared. I didn't want to be kind to her, but I didn't want to be cruel either. "I don't hate you," I said, dropping my voice to a murmur. "But I need some time."

Santana looked heartbroken as she mumbled, "Okay."

I didn't look back as I got out of the car, closed the door, and made my way up to my apartment.

* * *

x

* * *

When I got to work that morning, Callie was there already, perky as ever, putting on her makeup in the nude. She looked cute today, so I told her as much.

"You're looking great lately," I said. "A lot of definition in your abs." I smiled and opened my locker, ready to get my shift started.

"Thanks!" Callie chirped. "I'm trying Paleo, but I can't stop thinking about pasta..."

I chuckled. "Any diet that makes you give up pasta isn't going to last very long."

"I know..." she sighed. Then she perked up again, "Hey, are you doing better? You were so down this weekend."

"Yeah, I'm a lot better," I said.

"Good," Callie cooed. Then she studied me for a moment before taking a step toward me and murmuring, "If you weren't feeling better, I'd say we could help each other out."

I looked up and she quirked her eyebrow in an expression that could only mean one thing.

Caught off guard, I focused back on the mirror. Was Callie really making a pass at me? We played at it all the time, but it hadn't occurred to me that she was serious. I thought it was just our way of bantering.

But she wasn't bantering now. She was offering sex that didn't occur for public consumption.

I grew uncomfortable as I dabbed stain on my lips. Feeling the silence of the dressing room start to crush me, I took a breath and said, "I think it's probably best not to dip our tassels in the company pink, you know?"

Realizing I was rejecting her, Callie shook herself. "Yeah. Totally. It was just a thought."

Sad that I had had to reject her in the first place, I gave her a reassuring smile. I felt like I needed to offer more explanation. Because Callie and Santana didn't know each other and because I was desperate to tell someone how bad I had it for Santana, I said, "I'm kind of hung up on someone else. Wouldn't be fair to you." I gave her a playful wink and began putting on my eyeliner.

Callie picked up her playful energy. "Fair enough. Hey, have you heard the latest Robin Thicke single? It's awful, but I can't stop playing it in my head. Whatever you do, don't put it on in the Box today, okay?"

"No problem," I said.

When we clacked up the stairs into the Box five minutes later, I wondered how I was going to enforce my boundaries with Callie now. I guess I'd known she had dated girls before, but I had never considered that she might be interested in me. Or maybe she was just offering sex a la carte. I wasn't sure what her deal was. Regardless, I felt like I was on higher alert. We were expected to stay in the Box together for four hours, save for our scheduled breaks, and we were expected to interact for the customers. I hoped it would be a slow day and we could practice pole tricks for long stretches between being viewed. But I knew that wouldn't happen. Men didn't seem to care what time of day it was; they showed up with their dollars and blank stares, eager to masturbate to our images.

I found the best attitude to take with Callie in the Box was the come-here-go-away routine. It put me in control and allowed me to distance myself before anything got too steamy. But I was on constant alert, which made my shift seem longer. For the thousandth time, I was annoyed that the Box had no clock. The only way we could keep track of time was the appearance of new dancers in our midst and the way we swapped out for breaks every ten minutes. The Box had a weird timelessness to it that made time feel like time stretched on forever.

By the time my shift was done, I was tired and sweaty and more than ready to eat a big lunch. As I showered and put on my street clothes after my shift, I thought about why Callie had made a pass at me. Was it because I flirted unintentionally? Was it because of the nature of our work? Or was it just something that would have happened regardless of where we were and what we were doing?

Whatever the reason, it was a wakeup call that I needed to be firmer with my boundaries in _all_ my relationships. It was easy to resolve to ask Justine to vacuum more often and to steer conversations with Kimi away from my work because she made me feel bad about it. But it was harder to resolve to distance myself from Santana. She had done nothing wrong, and from an objective perspective, neither had I. I had been a good friend who had supported and encouraged her. More painfully, she'd been sweet and gentle with me. I didn't want any of that to change. But I knew, for the sake of my emotional well-being, that I needed to back away from her.

So I resolved that I was going to text her less often and limit our hanging out to once a month in a public setting. That would be enough distance to help me move on, right?

I really, really hoped so.

But of course, the universe had other plans.

The following night, a few hours before I was going to leave for my Booth shift, Santana called me.

"Hey," she said. She sounded anxious and distracted.

"Hey."

"Are you busy?"

I knew I should have said yes, but my Midwestern upbringing made it hard for me to lie. "No."

"Oh thank god," Santana breathed. "I'm having a hard time choosing what to wear tonight."

"Oh."

Tonight was her anniversary date with Isaiah.

"I have a little black dress, but he's seen me in it a hundred times. I have a longer dress that's purple, but it might be too fancy. And then I have this new dress I'm not sure about."

"Can you take a picture and send it?" I asked. As soon as I said it, I realized that was not a good plan. Santana sending me pictures of her in her dresses would only serve to increase my agony.

"Sure," she said. Then there was a pause and she said, "Actually, can you come over? Schro says you need to see the full effect."

Wincing and knowing I should decline, I agreed.

Twenty minutes later I was seated on Santana's bed with Schro in my lap. I knew I shouldn't have gone over there, and I definitely shouldn't have been on Santana's bed, but having the cat in my lap made me feel like I wasn't a total failure at having boundaries. His purring helped me stay settled as I heard Santana dressing in the bathroom.

She emerged first in the little black dress, a sleek cocktail dress with a satin bow around the waist. It looked great on her and complimented the shine of her hair.

But she wasn't sure, so she went into the bathroom and came out wearing a floor-length dress that was eggplant purple. It was a pretty dress, but it was more formal than was probably appropriate for the dinner she was going to have with Isaiah.

"It's pretty," I said. "But it's a little bit like you're..." I paused, looking for the right words.

"Going to a wedding?" she asked. "Yeah, I know. Let me try the last one."

She disappeared before I could say anything and I heard her shuffling around for a minute before the door opened and she emerged again.

My jaw dropped.

She was wearing a fitted, vintage, knee-length red dress with a bateau neckline and angled sleeves. She looked equal parts sophisticated and sexy.

When she saw my expression, she grinned and looked down at herself. "I think this is the one," she said. "It's a little different than what I usually wear, but... I like it."

I gave a blank nod before collecting myself and forcing my eyes up to her face. "If you're looking to spice things up in the bedroom, that's an excellent start," I said.

Santana's smile turned to a grimace and she turned to her desk, picking up a tube of makeup. "I don't know about that," she said, applying something to her lips. "But it can't hurt, right?"

Seeing her in her dress, knowing she was going to have a romantic evening out with someone who wasn't me, _did_ hurt. But that wasn't something I was going to say. I was going to make sure she had a great night out because that's what a good friend would do.

"Do you have your gift?" I asked, desperate to divert the conversation to anything else.

Santana nodded. "Right here," she said, tapping a small sparkly purse that hung on her desk chair. "I keep worrying I'm going to forget it."

I nodded and swallowed, feeling awkwardly rooted to the spot as her cat purred and she quietly put on makeup.

Then I realized I needed to leave before anything started hurting more. "I should get going," I mumbled. "My shift starts in an hour. Are you good?"

Santana smiled and nodded. "I just have to do my hair. Hope your night's easy and the customers are generous," she said, putting her lipstick down on the desk.

"Me too," I said. And though it pained me to say it, I added. "Have fun with Isaiah."

Santana thanked me and I trudged down the stairs out to my car. The image of her in her sexy dress, hair done up, lipstick wet and bright on lips that were reserved for Isaiah made something curl in my stomach and rest there, heavy. I hoped that Isaiah knew how lucky he was.

My shift passed without incident. One of my Booth regulars wanted to do our standard roleplay of boss and reluctant secretary. I played along, grateful he was generous with his money and didn't ask me to do anything out of our ordinary. A few other men came, came, and went, and after my shift I went home, ate some leftover veggie lasagna, and crawled in bed.

I woke up to my phone buzzing at two in the morning. Normally, I slept through my phone calls at night, but for some reason, this time I woke up. I raised my head an inch off the pillow, considering letting it go to voicemail like usual. But I cracked one eye open and saw it was Santana calling. I was instantly wide-awake.

But then I realized Santana wouldn't call me at two in the morning. It had probably been a butt dial. She was too poised and restricted to call so late. Besides, she was always with Isaiah on Saturday nights.

I flicked the call open and tried not to sound too groggy as I answered, "Hello?"

"Hi," Santana said. Her voice was tentative and shaky and I could hear she was trying to steady it.

"Hi," I echoed, trying not to sound too curious. I heard Santana breathing, as though she were walking or crying. I couldn't tell which.

"Are you awake?" Santana asked.

"Um... Yeah," I said, sitting up as I willed myself to be more awake. If Santana wanted me awake, I would be awake.

Santana didn't say anything as a few more shaky breaths rattled through the line.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

Santana didn't answer. After a few more breaths, she asked, "Are you home?"

"Yeah."

"Can I come up?"

Now I could tell Santana was crying. Was she here? Waiting outside? Why the hell was she in my neighborhood at this hour?

"Of course," I said. "Are you here?"

"Yeah."

I rose off my bed, feet soft and quiet on the ground as I pulled a sweater on over my Wonder Woman shirt. "I'll buzz you in."

"Thanks."

I walked through my apartment to the door, flicking on lights to make it seem like I had been awake. I unlocked the door and pressed the buzzer long enough for Santana to open it downstairs. I listened as Santana's footsteps crescendoed up the stairs and stopped in front of my door. Then there was silence for five seconds before Santana knocked. My hand was on the doorknob already, so I simply pulled, revealing Santana, standing before me, radiant in a knee-length wool coat and heels.

But her makeup had been wiped off and her hair wasn't as perfect as usual. Her polished exterior had a crack in it, and I had never adored her more.

She rushed inside, trying not to make eye contact as she came to a halt in the middle of the room. She fiddled with the top button of her coat, but kept it on. After a few seconds of taking stock of my apartment, she whirled around, eyes wide and scared as she met mine.

"He asked me to marry him!" she gasped. "He asked-," she choked for a second. "I thought he wanted to move in together, but he-" Her words caught in her throat and she stood frozen in the middle of my living room.

My heart dropped into my stomach. I felt hot and cold and prickly all over and my feet were stuck to the floor. I couldn't move my jaw to say anything. I swallowed, trying to loosen my throat and saw Santana's throat pulsing as she swallowed in response. As soon as I could think, my eyes flew to Santana's hands. They rested at her side, open and helpless. When I saw Santana wasn't wearing a ring, I found my voice.

"What did you say?"

Santana stared back at me, eyes wide as she shook her head. "I couldn't say anything- I just -" She kept shaking her head. "I just left!"

I nodded and a seed of hope buried itself deep inside me. "What did he say?"

Santana let out a breath, and her shoulders curled further up to her ears. "I don't know. I don't remember."

I heard a buzzing in Santana's pocket, but Santana didn't move.

"Are you going to answer that?"

Santana shook her head, eyes going wider with fear. "I can't."

I felt so sorry for this unraveled, terrified version of Santana. I wanted to wrap her in something soft and lay her on the couch and stroke her hair and tell her everything would be okay. But Santana was too spooked to let anyone try to calm her. So instead, I took a few cautious steps towards her and tried to radiate calm.

Santana flinched. "He's worried about me."

I nodded, thinking that if I were lucky enough to be Isaiah, I would be worried sick about Santana right now too. "Do you want me to get it?"

Santana swallowed and nodded.

Being careful not to touch Santana more than was necessary, I reached into her pocket until my hand met vibration. I pulled out the phone, seeing Isaiah's sweet, genuine smile on the contact picture, and slid the call open.

"Hi, Isaiah," I said, trying to make my words gentle and reassuring. "This is Santana's friend Brittany. She's at my house. She's safe."

"Is she coming back?"

I looked up at Santana for an answer, and met Santana's helpless, pleading eyes mere inches from my own.

"Not tonight," I said, guessing as to what Santana's response would be. "But she'll call you tomorrow at noon."

Santana swallowed, loosening a little as she gave a faint nod.

"Will you tell her she can forget the whole thing? I just want her to be happy," Isaiah said. His voice was edgy and panicked, and even though I had never spoken to him, I could tell he was upset.

"Of course," I said. I felt sorry for him. From everything Santana said, he was a wonderful guy.

I moved the phone away from my mouth an inch and repeated Isaiah's words to Santana. Santana stared up at me, her eyes seeming deeper and more scared as she nodded.

"Is she upset?" Isaiah asked, clearly upset himself.

"She's calming down," I said. "Don't worry."

"Okay. Tell her I mean it. We can keep doing what we've been doing and nothing has to change. And- tell her I love her."

I looked at Santana, knowing Santana could hear every word.

"I'll tell her."

I looked up at Santana, seeing a hint of relief pass over her face as I ended the call.

Then, before I knew what was happening, I felt a strain in my neck as my head was pushed back, my lips melded against Santana's.

Santana was kissing me. Hard and fierce and sudden.

She was still kissing me.

We were standing in the middle of my apartment at two in the morning after Isaiah had proposed to her, kissing.

My eyebrows shot up as I took a step back. Our lips made a wet smack as I pulled away, stunned.

It wasn't that I didn't want to kiss Santana. Of course I did. The pressure of her lips on mine was the best feeling I'd had in years. I felt like I could jump up and fly.

But the heavy feeling creeping into me now was not good. I didn't think kissing her was right when she was in a relationship that had a traditional foundation of monogamy. Even if kissing her felt right in so many other ways, I wanted it to feel right in _every_ way. I didn't know how to tell her that without bringing up Isaiah and the proposal and the fact that she supposedly didn't like girls. My mouth hung open as I searched for the right words. I had to pick the exact right ones so she wouldn't get spooked even further.

But before I could find the right words, Santana's face shifted into a look of panic. Her eyes opened wider than I had ever seen them, eyebrows arching towards her hairline as she gasped, hands flying to her mouth. She had been as surprised as me.

"Shit!" Santana gasped. She held her hands over her mouth for a second before she declared, "I'm drunk! I'm sorry, I have to go!"

She made a beeline for the door, reaching for the doorknob without looking back at me.

But I caught her wrist. I knew she wasn't drunk.

"Wait."

I looked at her, trying to tell her with my eyes that it was okay that she kissed me. Well, kind of okay. It wasn't unwanted.

Mostly, I didn't want to lose her.

"If you're drunk, you shouldn't drive."

Santana swallowed. "What should I do?"

I knew the question was about more than leaving or staying in my apartment. She wanted guidance in so many ways. I didn't have guidance, but I had a couch and a sudden, innocent desire to know what Santana looked like in the morning.

"Stay here on my couch. I have an extra toothbrush."

Santana's shoulders loosened an inch. "Okay," she whispered. She looked around the apartment again before repeating "I'm sorry." She shook her head, looking at the floor in shame.

"There's nothing to be sorry about."

Santana nodded, willing it to be true as she covered her face with her hands. "I don't know what's happening to me."

"It's okay. Unexpected things throw most people off."

Santana kept her face covered for a minute before sighing and lowering her hands to clutch at her elbows.

I decided that if I acted like everything was fine, it would help her believe it. Although, let's face it, showing up at your stripper friend's house at two in the morning after a guy asks you to marry him and then kissing the stripper is odd behavior.

"The extra toothbrush is in the drawer to the left. It's still in the package."

Santana shuffled into the bathroom as I started moving pillows off the couch, fluffing up one for Santana's head. I spread a blanket over the middle section as I listened to her brush her teeth and rinse her mouth. When I was done, I looked up to see her leaning against the frame of the bathroom door.

"Do you need anything else?" I asked, gesturing towards the couch.

Santana shook her head, a loose strand of her hair swinging next to her face. "Just to not feel crazy. Maybe someone should shake me really hard."

"You're not crazy," I said with a tender smile. "You're just under a lot of pressure."

Santana let out an exhausted sigh. She unbuttoned her coat and hung it over the chair next to the sofa. She was still wearing her dress from her date with Isaiah. Her very form-fitting, tight-in-all-the-right-places dress.

I swallowed. "Do you want a t-shirt or something?" I offered. "You shouldn't have to sleep in that."

Santana looked down at her dress, as if realizing she was still wearing it. "Oh. Um, it's comfortable. But... sure." She gave me a soft smile that indicated she was calming down.

I smiled back and turned into my bedroom. I opened the bottom drawer of my dresser where I kept my t-shirts and was faced with a dilemma. Which t-shirt should I give her? I could go for something tacky like the Hooters shirt I'd been given for my birthday in college. Maybe that would make Santana laugh. I could remind Santana how well-educated I was by giving her a shirt from UCSF. But in the end, I decided to go with the most comforting shirt I owned, a simple tee from my hometown coffee shop. I tucked the shirt over my arm, feeling the soft, worn cotton on my still sleep-warm skin. Hopefully the shirt would comfort Santana the same way it did me.

For a moment, I let myself imagine bringing Santana to my hometown coffee shop, watching her study the menu above the register before ordering the same thing she always ordered here. It was an exciting thought, but I tucked it away. Tonight was about taking care of her, not fantasizing about a future that would never happen.

But then again, Santana had kissed me. That kiss made it too easy to imagine holding her hand as I opened the door of the coffee shop, senses flooded with the sounds and smells of her and coffee.

I walked back out to the living room where Santana was perched tentatively on the edge of the couch, still in her dress. Her hands were clutched in her lap, knees pinned together as she peered at the magazines on the coffee table.

"Here," I said, nudging Santana's shoulder with the shirt.

Santana took the shirt and tucked it in her lap with her hands, smiling up at me.

I stood for a second before saying, "Do you want sweats too?"

Santana shook her head. "No, this is fine."

I nodded, staring down at Santana for what felt like forever before realizing she wanted to change and wasn't going to do it while I was in the room.

"I guess I'll see you in the morning."

"Yeah," Santana said, looking back at the coffee table.

I didn't move for a few seconds until I said, "Okay. Goodnight." Then I turned and walked toward my room, shutting my eyes in embarrassment.

"Wait," Santana called suddenly.

I looked back. Santana didn't say anything, but stood and walked over to me. She held her arms up halfway before leaning forward and hugging me. It was tentative at first, but then she rested her head on my shoulder and wrapped her arms around me. "Thank you," she murmured.

She stayed like that for a moment while my heart raced. Santana was hugging me and not letting go. Our bodies were pressed together with only a few layers of fabric between us.

Not wanting her to move, I wrapped my arms around her waist and murmured, "Of course. You can always come here."

"Okay."

We stayed like that until I was sure we'd get stuck together.

Then Santana pulled away, calm as she tucked her hair behind her ears. "Good night."

"Good night."

Santana turned back to the couch and picked up the shirt, throwing one last smile over her shoulder.

Dumbfounded from the prolonged contact, I forced my feet to move towards my bedroom. I realized I'd been holding my breath when I shut the door and exhaled. As I settled back into my bed, I was certain I wouldn't get a wink of sleep knowing that Santana, the most beautiful girl in the world, was on my couch, only yards away.


	13. Letdown

A/N: Thanks JJ!

* * *

**Chapter 13: Letdown**

* * *

So here's what you missed on Dandelion: Bar!Britt learned that Santana isn't out yet, which explains a whole lot of her hot and cold behavior and probably made Britt care about her even more if her sweet, gentle reaction when Santana told her is any indication. Lab!Britt learned that Santana publicly outed her movie-star ex for professional gain and is totally freaked out about it because she was really starting to trust her. Violet!Britt had perhaps the biggest surprise of all when a disheveled Shy!Santana arrived at her house at 2 a.m. on the night of her anniversary dinner, distraught over an unexpected proposal and uninhibited enough to ambush Brittany with a kiss before agreeing to sleep on Brittany's couch. And that's what you missed!

* * *

I held Santana there for a long time, hoping she was assured I wouldn't pressure her to come out or do anything that made her the slightest bit uncomfortable. When the tension finally left her body and I didn't feel like we had to be so serious, I pulled back and gave Santana a playful look before I said, "Can I kiss you?"

She exhaled with a shaky smile and leaned forward, kissing me before I could kiss her. It was a kiss of gratitude, of relief, and of a new intimacy. It felt like the deepest kiss we'd shared, but at the same time it was lighthearted and intimate. It lasted only a few seconds, but I felt as though time passed in our relationship. We were more established now. Then I took her hand and said, "We should do something fun. Justine told me there's a cupcake exhibition in Fort Mason tomorrow. Want to go?"

Santana paused for a minute, eyes flickering down to our hands. Sensing that being in public together would make her nervous, I let go of her hand, silently promising not to be overly affectionate in public. "I'll behave," I said. "I need both hands to hold cupcakes anyway."

Santana's smile returned in full. "That sounds fun," she said.

"Justine might be going with Avery and some of her friends from work. I'm not sure. You can invite friends too if you want."

"That's okay," Santana said hurriedly. "I'll probably want to... focus on the cupcakes." I thought her eyes flickered down to my cleavage for a minute, but it could have been my imagination.

Glad that the air was finally cleared between us and we were planning fun things together, I leaned forward and pecked her on the lips again.

"Great," I said.

Then there was silence that was calm yet loaded. Where did we go from here? I'd promised no PDA, and we had plans to hang out again. But what were we going to do now?

Santana must have felt the same awkwardness because she glanced around her messy apartment before saying, "Do you want to hang out for a bit?"

"Always," I said, grateful she was taking the lead. I stood the least chance of spooking her if she set the agenda for the day. "What do you want to do?"

Santana took a few steps away, stepping over a pile of books on her floor. "Oh I don't know..." she said. She stopped next to her bed, then reached up and fiddled with her top button with a coy smile. "I'm sure we can think of something." Her eyebrow gave a subtle lift and I felt my heart pick up for a few beats.

"I'm sure we can," I said, slowly walking to join her. "Is it just me, or is it kind of hot in here?"

"That's all on you, babe," Santana said, reaching forward to pull me forward by my shirt before lifting it over my head and drawing me flush against her torso. "It's definitely very... very hot in here."

I couldn't help myself from giggling as I brought my chin to hers, pressing our smiles together as she continued undressing me.

Soon we were naked and she had pushed the covers off her mattress and she was on top of me. But something was different now. She was still fiery and intense, but everything felt slower. It was no less thrilling, but it had lost of some of its manic intensity. She still gripped my head and hips and breasts with just as much fervor, but she took time to breathe and read my body. I loved this slowed-down version of her. She even made some eye contact throughout, which I suddenly realized wasn't something she did. I really liked it, and smiled up at her, a desperate, grateful, abandoned smile. I had surrendered to my feelings for her weeks ago, and finally she had done the same.

Once she worked me up until I was groaning and panting and writhing beneath her, holding me tight and firm as I came, she rested on top of me, satisfied and sweaty. I brushed her hair out of her face and smiled up at her.

"You always work so hard," I panted.

Her grin turned proud. "It's worth it," she murmured. "You look so sexy when I fuck you."

Sighing in satisfaction, I closed my eyes, glad she was turned on by exhausting me. "I feel like a limp noodle."

She giggled and kissed the crook of my neck. "A very sexy noodle." Then there was a pause. "I feel like this is leading into penis joke territory. Let's not go there."

I chuckled. "Okay."

I took a few more moments to catch my breath before I opened my eyes and looked up at her with a more energized smile.

"You ready for me?

"Always," she said.

Tilting my chin up to kiss her, I wrapped my arms around her back and drew her into me, drinking her in. I slid my feet through the sheets and propped my legs up so I had some leverage with my hips. Wanting to rile her up, I kissed her until I was sure she was wondering if I would follow through. Then, suddenly, I pushed off the mattress with my right foot, turning us over so I was on top of her, straddling her. At the same time, I grabbed her arms and pinned them next to her head. "I can work hard too, you know."

She looked stunned, then jerked her hands to free herself. But I had anticipated that and held firm. She tried once more before she exhaled in surrender.

I loved that she was letting down her guard some.

So I set about ravishing her. Hands still trapping her arms, I burrowed into her neck, nipping and sucking on the tender skin, but never hard enough to leave a mark. I rocked my hips into her, setting a rhythm, feeling how our breasts rubbed together, sticky with the sweat she'd worked up between us. I started humming as I trailed lower, kissing her breasts before suddenly sucking her nipple into my mouth. She drew in a quick breath and arched up into me. My body was still humming with the orgasm she'd given me, but I felt myself starting to get aroused again. She brought that out in me. I wondered if I would ever be completely satisfied in her bed; she was saltwater to my thirst, and every gulp, every touch, every gasp only made me thirstier.

I had noticed that Santana didn't talk much in bed. It didn't bother me, but I loved a bit of sexy banter while I was having sex. It enhanced everything and left the door open for more communication, and I don't think there's such a thing as too much of that, at least in bed. I could read Santana's body fine, but words were good too.

I popped my mouth off her breast. "Feel good?"

"Uh huh," she gasped.

I lowered my smiling lips to her other nipple and continued sucking, her rutting hips growing more frantic.

When I released her darkened nipple, I kept talking. "Anything else you want?"

She panted a few more times, hands straining against mine. "More."

I was surprised she wanted more nipple play, but some people need a lot of foreplay. I didn't think Santana was one of them - she was usually ready within seconds of getting naked - but I lowered my head to the first nipple and sucked again. Her hands strained again, but I held firm. I released my suction long enough to say, "Something else you want?"

"Just- Let go," she grunted.

Never one to deny a verbal request, I released her hands. I should have known that, given full use of her limbs, she would scramble back to being dominant. She didn't flip me over, but her hands clawed at my back for a moment before finding their way into my hair and pushing my head down.

"Need something?" I said playfully, holding firm.

Santana exhaled and nodded frantically, closing her eyes. But she didn't say anything. She pushed down again before changing her mind and cradling my head to her chest. Then one of her hands reached for mine.

"You want me to touch something?" I asked, playing dumb.

She nodded again.

"I do love playing with your tits." I reached up and began massaging Santana's breasts, running my thumb over the nipple not trapped under my head. "You have amazing tits, babe."

"Thanks," Santana breathed. She picked up my hand from her breast.

"Something else you want me to do?" I asked, keeping up with our game.

"Britt, just _touch_ me," she pleaded.

Realizing it was hard for her to say out loud, I shifted my torso off her and ran my hand up her thigh. She shivered and tensed, and when I brushed my fingers against her sex, she whimpered.

I kept playing with her gently, never delving inside or touching beyond light strokes. Her legs tensed and her feet pointed a few times, brow crinkling over closed eyes. But she didn't say anything until she was so frustrated, she muttered, "Stop teasing, Britt."

At that, I relented and pushed inside her, watching her mouth open silently in relief. From there, I worked her up until she was clutching at me and straining back with her orgasm. I watched her roll through it and smiled down at her. When she came down, she immediately flipped me over, burrowing into my neck as she recovered.

I chuckled in satisfaction, feeling her weight on top of me, elated to be close to her. Then our energy softened and we drifted into sleep, awaking only to untangle ourselves and go to the bathroom before settling in for the night. I slept soundly, comforted by the sound of Santana's soft breathing next to me.

The next morning when I crept back into my apartment, hoping to avoid Justine's attention, she ambushed me.

"Time's up, Pierce," she said. "You talk to her?"

I was startled, feeling surprise seize my chest as I straightened up to face her. "Yeah," I said. "We talked."

"And?"

"And… we're good," I said.

Justine gave me a dubious glare.

"It's complicated," I said, holding up a hand in warning.

"No, it's not," Justine whined. "Either she wants to be with you or she doesn't. If she's not sure, she doesn't deserve you."

"I know," I said, trying to be patient. "But don't worry. I'm clear on what's going on now."

"Which is?" Justine squinted.

I turned and faced her, giving her my best challenging stare. "We mean more than just a hookup to each other, but she's not out, so I'm not going to push her."

"Wait, _what_?" Justine said. "She's not _out_?"

"Nope," I said, grateful someone was as surprised as I was.

"But she's, like… gayer than anyone at Jules'. If she were a guy she'd be two steps away from a Chiquita Banana hat."

"I know. But she's not ready to come out, so I'm not going to push anything," I echoed.

Justine was quiet for a moment before she said, "Is she planning to come out?"

Realizing I didn't know the answer to Justine's question, I shrugged.

"Don't you care?" Justine asked, surprised.

"Not really," I said. "I mean, I get to be with her and have great sex and know that she's there for me."

"But what about when you want to bring a date somewhere or if someone asks if you're single?"

Realizing I hadn't thought about that, I gave a shrug that I'm sure was less convincing. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," I said, trying to stay calm. "Right now we're just having fun."

Justine sucked in air through her teeth. "I don't know, Britt. I mean, she's great, but I feel like it's going to get really complicated."

I gave Justine a placating smile. "Two people liking each other doesn't have to be any more complicated than it sounds."

"I know. But how would you feel dating her long-term if she never came out?"

I was surprised when I realized that I hadn't thought about it. I had assumed that Santana planned to come out at some point. Not today or tomorrow, but eventually. I hadn't considered that she might _never_ come out.

"It's not my place to decide if she comes out," I said.

"You're right, but you do get to decide if you're okay dating someone who may not come out."

I started feeling resentful of Justine. Why was she making me think about this now? All I wanted to do was be grateful that I finally understood why Santana was the way she was. I liked her so much, and understanding why she protected her tender underbelly made me like her even more.

"It's fine if she doesn't come out," I said. "We're friends first and foremost. That's what solid relationships are based on."

"Totally," Justine said. "And I'm glad you have a good friendship. I just want you to consider how you'll feel when you can't bring her home for Christmas or take her as your date to the next wedding you get invited to."

Grasping for anything to avoid being sucked into Justine's undertow, I shot her a look. "We're not there yet, Justine," I said. "Even if she were out, taking her home for Christmas is a huge step. Slow down."

Justine backed off. "You're right," she said, holding up her hands. "I'm just protective of you."

I softened and gave her an appreciative smile. "I know," I said. "But don't worry, I can take care of myself."

"Relationships are complicated," Justine said, sighing.

I paused, suddenly concerned. "Everything okay with Avery?"

"What? Oh, yeah, yeah," Justine said. "But you know, it takes work."

I nodded. "It does after the first year or so. But right now Santana and I are in the fun stage."

Justine smiled. "You mean the rip-each-other's-clothes-off stage? Yeah, I remember that. I didn't ever have to go to the gym because Avery and I were working out together so often."

I grinned at her. "That's where Santana and I are at right now."

Justine patted my knee and got up to refill her water glass. "Let me know if you ever want me out of the apartment for a few hours," she said. "I can disappear."

I giggled. "You're not here much anyway. And it's not like we're doing it on the sofa."

"You better not," Justine said with a look of mock warning.

"Just heavy foreplay," I said with smirk.

Justine chuckled and went into the kitchen.

But I was left in the living room stewing over the questions she'd brought up. My adoration for Santana aside, how _did_ I feel about dating someone who was closeted and not planning to come out? The idea of a secret relationship was part tantalizing, but also part awful. I liked Santana so much and I was so proud that she liked me back, but I wasn't allowed to show her off to anyone. Perhaps more hurtfully, she didn't want to show _me_ off. I couldn't help but think that not sharing our joy would stifle it.

And what had Santana meant when she said that not everyone had the luxury of living in a "hippie, love-who-you-love utopia"? Did that mean she thought I was naive? Spoiled? Or just lucky? Was she afraid of something specific, aside from general prejudice? Was there something obvious that I wasn't seeing? Now that I knew what was going on with her, I had more questions than I did before.

But I reasoned that I had plenty of time to find out the answers. She wasn't going anywhere, and if I knew her, she'd be over that night with a bottle of wine or plate of cookies for movie night.

* * *

x

* * *

I managed to get inside and close the door behind me before my face scrunched up and I went hot and tight all over.

I didn't understand why, but I was furious at Santana for what she'd done to someone I didn't even know.

And worse than that, I was angry at myself for trusting her. She had put on such a convincing show, I had bought into the idea that such a wonderful, complete person existed. And now that idea had been shattered. She was nothing but a charlatan.

I didn't think Justine was home, but she poked her head out of the kitchen with a smile that fell when she saw me standing by the door.

"Hey..." she said walking towards me tentatively. "I thought you were staying with Santana tonight," she cooed.

I shook my head, closing my eyes to push back tears. "No," I gulped.

"Everything okay?"

I shook my head again and Justine's face shifted into an even more concerned expression.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I took a deep breath and shuddered, feeling more grateful than ever for Justine. I gave an unsteady nod and walked over to the couch, falling down into it, wishing it would wrap me up in its faultless, pillowy expanse.

Justine followed me and sat in her armchair, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees as she waited for me to talk.

"You know how Santana seems perfect?" I said, surprised at the roughness of my voice.

Justine nodded and waited for me to continue.

I shuddered some more as I wiped my eyes. "She's not."

"No one's perfect," Justine murmured.

I shook a little more. "I thought she was," I mumbled. I tilted my head back and looked at the ceiling, waiting until my vision cleared a bit before I took a deep breath. "She told me tonight that she outed her ex to get a better job."

Justine didn't say anything, but I could feel her tense. After a moment, she said gently, "Yikes..."

I exhaled in relief that someone else knew.

"You know Callie Wilson?"

"The chick from those action movies that everyone says likes girls?"

I cringed and nodded. "The reason everyone knows she likes girls is because Santana made sure they did after they broke up."

I glanced at Justine to gauge her reaction. First her brow crinkled, then she said, "Santana dated Callie Wilson?"

I let out a fatigued sigh and nodded. "For six months."

Justine's eyebrows arched. "Shit."

I put my hand on my stomach, feeling it untwist a little now that I'd told someone else the awful truth about Santana.

"I don't know if I can trust her," I mumbled.

"Callie Wilson?" Justine frowned.

"No, Santana," I said, annoyed that Justine hadn't followed my train of thought. "If she outed Callie, what's stopping her from screwing me over?"

"I thought you guys weren't screwing yet," Justine said, trying to make me laugh.

But it didn't make me laugh. It reminded me I had at least one thing to be relieved about. I hadn't slept with Santana when I was still deluded about what kind of person she was.

"We're not," I muttered.

Justine took my tone as an indicator of my lack of humor at the moment. She nodded and laced her hands together between her knees. "Did she express any remorse about what she did?"

I huffed. "Not enough to convince me."

Justine nodded. "What did she say?"

"She said that she knows she shouldn't have done it, but when she goes into work every day, she feels conflicted because she really loves her job."

Justine leaned back a bit. "Well at least she knows it was wrong."

"But how can she feel conflicted about it? She could have ruined Callie's career!"

Justine bit her lip, tilting her head to acknowledge that I had a point. But from the contemplative expression on her face, I could tell she was trying to give Santana the benefit of the doubt. I had no idea why. Santana didn't deserve the benefit of anyone's doubt after what she'd done.

"What's your ideal job, Britt?" Justine asked.

I let out a dejected sigh, feeling myself slump further into the couch. "Not working for Turner, I'll tell you that much."

Justine kept chewing her lip and nodding. "Well... for someone as driven as Santana, I think it makes sense that she's conflicted. Imagine if you _loved_ your work. What would you be willing to do to feel that way?"

Begrudgingly, I tried to imagine not feeling weighted down the minute the alarm went off and I began my trudge to the office every day. I would be willing to do quite a few things to have a happier professional life. But selling out someone I cared about wasn't one of them.

It was quiet for a minute, and Justine seemed to understand that I wasn't going to answer her semi-rhetorical question.

"Look, I have no idea why Santana did that, and it's shitty. Outing people isn't cool. But I hope you don't write her off because of it."

Surprised and somewhat appalled, I shot her a look that said as much.

"I just - I don't know, I feel like there must be more to it than her wanting to get a good job."

I gave her another dubious look and she relented.

"Outing people for personal gain is barbaric," I said. "I'm not even mad about what she did to me, I'm just angry on principle."

Justine frowned. "What did she do to you?"

I sputtered in exasperation. "She didn't tell me the truth!"

"Yes she did. She told you tonight. She didn't have to tell you at all. That took balls, Britt."

"Stop defending her!" I snapped.

Justine sighed in defeat. "Maybe I just want to believe there's more to it because - shit, you've been so, so happy since you started dating her and I don't want you to go back to being down."

"You're supposed to be a complete person before you're in a relationship, not because you're in one."

"I know," Justine said, holding up her hands. "I'm not saying she makes you happy. I just think the two of you together have a good thing, and I hope you don't throw it away because of this."

"How can I date someone who outs people for personal gain?" I asked, squinting.

Justine dropped her arms and gave a defeated shrug. "I don't know. You're right- it's a big deal."

"Could you date someone who did that?" I asked, challenging her to say she would. Justine Social Justice Moore wouldn't date someone with radically different views on anything she believed in.

But to my surprise, she gave a gentle shrug and stared right into my eyes as she said softly, "I guess it would depend on how strong my feelings were for that person." There was a moment of loaded silence before she said, "Don't give up something you love just because it's not perfect."

Stunned by her use of the word Love, I sputtered for a minute before I went quiet again.

"Everyone's made mistakes, Britt," Justine said. Her voice was low and surprisingly unnerving.

"Why are you defending her?" I whined. "If a guy I was dating outed someone you'd be telling me to break up with him."

"Maybe so. But..."

"What?" I asked, surprised by the bite in my voice. I was almost barking.

"I feel like you're using this as an excuse to run away from her."

"What are you talking about?"

Justine squinted. "You always do this, Britt. You find someone amazing and then find one flaw that you can't live with."

"No I don't."

"Henry."

"He told the whole grad program I was easy!"

"Maggie."

"Incompatible."

"Sandra."

"Who?"

"That girl I set you up with two years ago."

"She-" I stumbled on that one. The girl in question had been wonderful, and Justine knew it. My voice was softened when I found words again. "She just wasn't right."

Justine slowly clasped her hands in a gesture that wasn't threatening but wasn't nurturing either. "Uh huh."

Now I felt like Justine was trying to knock me over on purpose.

"Britt, you know I love you, right?" Justine asked, taking a gentle tough-love stance.

I crossed my arms and waited for her to continue.

"I hope you know that I'm saying this out of love: you have a hard time opening up to people, and I feel like you're using this one thing Santana did years ago as a reason to run away from something just because relationships are scary."

I took a breath, prepared to argue with Justine's theory, but I found myself coming up short. I didn't have a comeback for what she'd said.

"What she did was wrong. I just think that if you were to sit down and look at all the pieces, then you might see that maybe you're letting your fear turn her black and white."

"She's Latina."

Justine didn't buy into the joke for a second.

"Whatever Santana did in the past, your feelings for her are going to scare you. And if the look on your face every time you think of her tells me anything, your feelings for her are pretty strong. So don't write her off instantly for this. There are parts of you that you're ashamed of too. At least she's showing you everything now. And if you think a sexy, smart, successful, and emotionally available woman who adores you is easy to come by, you're wrong and you know it. She is one in a million."

Upset that Justine was trying to make Santana's bad behavior about me, I let out a frustrated sigh and sat up abruptly.

"I need to go to bed," I muttered. I picked up my purse and went into my room, without saying goodnight.

I took off my date clothes and put on my pajamas. Wanting to feel soothed in the way Santana used to soothe me, I crawled into my bed and wrapped the covers around me. I drew them up high and thought about how Justine hadn't understood why I was so upset.

I reached for my phone and was unsurprised to see a long text from Santana.

_I'm really sorry I didn't tell you earlier. I know it was wrong and I would never, ever do it again. Please don't hate me. I care about you so much and I hope you still want to see me._

I wanted to respond, but I didn't know what to say that wouldn't come across incorrectly via text or commit me to a certain reaction. I could tell her that I was going to bed and we'd talk later, but I wasn't sure I wanted to talk later. I could tell her that I didn't hate anyone, including her. I could tell her that I wanted to believe her, but wasn't sure I could.

So instead, I pulled up the internet browser and typed _Callie Wilson outed_ into the search bar. Articles and pictures of Callie's bright smile popped up linked to Perez Hilton, Buzzfeed, and Popcandy. The more I scrolled, the sadder I was for Callie, and the angrier I was at Santana.

Feeling my anger bubble up again, I let her message go unanswered as I set my phone back on my desk and turned out my light, drawing the covers over my shoulder as I turned to face the wall.

* * *

x

* * *

I thought I wouldn't sleep a wink with Santana on the other side of the door on my couch, but, to my surprise, I slept like a baby. I didn't dream, but I woke smiling, as though I had gotten laid the night before or something. But it wasn't the sweaty, sated kind of a smile; it was a smile of being rested and content, one of those rare moments in life where everything seems in place. I smiled before I even remembered Santana was asleep on the couch. Then I grew excited, sitting up and tiptoeing to my door, hoping to catch a glimpse of her sleeping. I was certain she would look beautiful. But then again, she was always beautiful. I opened the door a crack, eyes falling to the couch where Santana should have been.

But she wasn't there.

I opened the door wider, stomach dropping as I realized Santana had bolted. I kicked myself. I should have said something about the kiss! Now she was freaked out about Isaiah and me. Why did I always make such a mess of things?

No sooner had my stomach dropped and my hand slid off the doorknob, I heard a shuffling in the kitchen, followed by a soft yelp. Then I saw her purse where she'd dropped it by the door. My heart raced, realizing Santana hadn't left. I walked toward the kitchen, making my footsteps heavy enough to be heard, lest I frighten her. I decided my goal for the day was to frighten her as little as possible.

When I reached the doorway, my heart lurched into my throat. Santana was hovering over the stove with her back to me, wearing nothing but my t-shirt and a pair of black cotton panties, an inch of which was visible along the hem of the shirt. My mouth went dry and I had to force myself not gasp.

There was no denying it: I had it bad for Santana Lopez, and there was no end to my adoration in sight.

I realized Santana didn't know I was there and I needed to alert her to my presence before I was caught looking like a creeper. I cleared my throat. "Good morning." It sounded raspier than I wanted it to.

Santana whirled around, spatula sticking out towards me like a weapon.

"Hi!" Santana said in alarm. Her eyes were wide, but they quickly settled as she looked around her. "Sorry. Um, I'm trying to make breakfast, but I think I'm just making a mess."

I hadn't even noticed the mess in my kitchen. "That's okay."

Santana looked apologetic as she noticed a glob of raw egg running down the cabinet. "Isaiah always makes breakfast on the weekend."

Right. Santana usually had Sunday morning breakfast with her boyfriend. Her handsome, kind, male boyfriend.

"I can pour you some cereal if you want," Santana said, stepping towards the cabinet.

"Okay," I said. Obviously I was capable of pouring my own cereal, but Santana was in such a frenzy, I didn't want to disrupt her.

Santana opened the cabinet as she said, "What kind?"

"I only have one kind."

"Right."

Santana opened a few more cupboards and found a bowl, pouring too much in and having to negotiate the rim of the bowl against the side of the box to return some of the contents inside. Then she opened the refrigerator and her eyes roamed for a few seconds before she found the milk. She poured it over the cereal and set the bowl in front of me.

"Bon appétit," she said with a nervous smile.

"Thanks," I said back, rubbing sleep from my eyes. I was still waking up.

Santana turned back to the stove, and I tried to be quiet as she got up to get myself a spoon. I sat back down and imagined a scene like this, but in reverse, with Santana at the table and Isaiah standing over the stove holding the spatula, calmer than Santana currently was, at ease in their weekend routine.

The routine Isaiah wanted to last the rest of his life.

My heart sank, remembering the distraught look on Santana's face when she had arrived last night. She didn't look as helpless now, but she was still distressed. An unexpected proposal would throw anyone for a loop. I wondered if Isaiah had really thought about what he was doing before he proposed. Santana didn't like surprises at all.

I remembered my imposed noon deadline for Isaiah and Santana to discuss their potential engagement and felt guilty. I decided to offer to help her sort out her thoughts.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I asked, my words gentle as I brought a spoonful of cereal to my lips.

Santana turned around again, her energy spinning towards panic. "I don't know what came over me. Just- forget it. I don't go around kissing my friends." She turned back to the stove, ducking her head as she concentrated on the contents of the frying pan.

I was taken aback. I had meant to offer to discuss Isaiah's proposal, not our kiss. I finished chewing before saying, "Oh."

There was a moment of silence as Santana purposefully flipped a pancake.

I was speaking before I realized. "I didn't mind you kissing me at all."

Santana froze, her back still to me, spatula mid-air.

Panicked and shocked I had spoken my thoughts, I backtracked. "But I meant Isaiah. Just wondering if you wanted to talk about that situation."

"Oh." The word was dry and fragile on Santana's tongue. "That."

Santana stayed still for a moment before slowly turning towards me, spatula unthreatening as it came to rest by her side. "Isaiah is a great guy."

I nodded and took another bite. If I was chewing, I didn't have to talk, I'd be less likely to blurt out something crazy like _I love you_, and Santana would have unpressured space to think out loud.

"He's always been kind and thoughtful and a _total_ gentleman," she stressed. "Any girl would be lucky to have him."

I kept nodding, chewing quicker to keep my mouth busy.

Santana's gaze fell to the ground, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "I just don't know if I want to _marry_ him. How does anyone know if they want to marry someone?"

I took another huge bite to keep myself from saying something embarrassing.

I imagined that I would know I wanted to marry someone when I pictured our wedding; the way her eyelashes looked through her veil, the way she giggled softly as we entered our honeymoon suite. I imagined that I would know I wanted to marry someone when I pictured the way her black hair would be streaked with silver as she aged, growing wiser and more beautiful with every smile line and sunspot. I imagined I would know I wanted to marry someone when the idea of having sex with just one person for the rest of my life didn't feel limiting.

But I couldn't say any of that out loud because it was absolutely crazy and deluded.

So I settled for a version of it.

"Do you ever picture your wedding with him? Or what he'd look like as an old man?"

Santana paused, staring at the floor for a moment before she shook her head. "Never." There was another moment of silence as I took a bite. I didn't know how to tell Santana not to marry Isaiah without seeming selfish and stupid.

"Oh god..." Santana sighed, bringing her hand to her face. "I can't even picture it when I try." Another pause. "I can't marry him, can I?"

I chewed to keep myself from shouting NO YOU CAN'T at the top of my lungs. I gave her a muted, sad smile around my bite and kept chewing.

Santana put her face in her hands, spatula pointing towards the ceiling. "Oh god..." she cringed. "I can't break his heart like that." She took a deep breath and let it out.

"He already knows you're uncertain," I pointed out.

Santana dropped her hands and looked at me, shaking her head. "He's an optimist. He's still hoping I'm skittish."

"You _are_ skittish."

"But he's hoping I'll come running back to him and jump into his arms."

I tried to picture Santana jumping into Isaiah's arms and felt my throat close. I swallowed and bit my lip before asking. "Do you ever do that?"

Santana gave a lighthearted roll of her eyes. "A few times when we first started dating and he picked me up at the airport. Back when everything was new and exciting."

I nodded, picturing Santana running towards me and jumping into my arms. "Is there any part of you that wants to do that?"

Santana looked up and to the side. "The part that doesn't want to hurt him. Yeah. He deserves someone who will do that."

"Are you that person?"

Santana sighed and turned back to the pancakes, heavy. "I don't know."

Taking her cue that she was done talking about it for now, I finished my cereal quietly, giving her reassuring, sympathetic smiles between bites.

After we finished breakfast, she stood up and she seemed to realize she was standing in my kitchen without pants. Probably because - dammit, Brittany - I let my gaze flicker down to her legs. Those toned, beautiful, tan legs that disappeared under the hem of my oversized t-shirt. She was cooking me breakfast in my house, wearing nothing but her panties and my t-shirt. It was the closest I'd ever felt to her being my girlfriend. It was a beautiful moment.

But then she realized I was looking at her, and she froze. I knew immediately that the spell that had rested over my house since she arrived, the bubble of fantasy I'd protected, had popped. She was going to leave. She'd promised to call Isaiah at noon, and she wasn't going to do that in my house with me listening. At least, not in the real world where she respected Isaiah and her relationship with him.

She hurried into the living room and found her dress. She went into the bathroom and came out a few minutes later, hair swept up and dress where my shirt had been a few minutes before.

As she headed for the door, I wanted more than anything to ask her what she was going to tell him. I wanted to know if I should let the hope fires kindle any longer. Because tending them, while sometimes joyous and lovely, can be exhausting. Sometimes it's nice to be told to give up and find something else to fixate on.

But at the same time, I wasn't ready to be told to give up. So I didn't ask. I said goodbye, wishing her good luck, and told her to call me and let me know how it went. She gave a quick nod and a tight smile, already turning into the hall, shutting the door behind her.

I sank onto the couch. My apartment felt so much bigger without her there. Colder, too. She made it seem lighter and warmer, and I missed that.

But mostly I just missed her.

The rest of the day I puttered around the house. I gathered some laundry to do the following day. When I came across the shirt Santana had borrowed, folded neatly on the edge of the bathroom sink, I was tempted to bury my nose in it and smell Santana's sleep smell. But that was a boundary I knew I shouldn't cross, so I put it in the basket with the rest of my laundry and started getting ready for my shift.

I knew I'd be working with Callie that afternoon, which would be tricky and awkward now. It was one of those shifts where I knew I was phoning it in. Even Callie could tell, because she called me on it.

I sighed, wiping down the pole that felt more buttery than usual tonight.

Callie looked at me, adjusting her posture out of anything that could be construed as sexual. "That girl let you down?" Her words were low and apologetic, surprisingly compassionate instead of the snide remark I was expecting from her.

"Not really," I shrugged.

Callie nodded, turning back to a window as it opened, and greeting the customer in a voice an octave higher than the one she used with me. "Hey, baby, how's your night going?" she purred, running her hand from her neck down the side of her breast to her stomach.

It was something I'd done hundreds of times, and seen the other girls do thousands of times. But tonight, something about the whole thing bothered me.

This is what they don't tell you about stripping and sex work: we're not the desired objects. I mean, yes, we are, in the sense that we're the sex symbols. But everything else is totally backwards. The stunning, intelligent, ballsy girls I work with bust their asses chasing our customers. Out in the rest of the world, men drool over girls like us. These are the best girls I've ever met, and yet our customers are ungrateful, unphased, unimpressed, rude, and ambivalent towards us. Sure, they'll keep dropping quarters in the machine so they can look at us, but nothing we do gets much of a reaction. I could probably pull out a banjo and sit crosslegged on the floor and the customers' faces would stay the same.

Hustle club stripping is even worse. Those girls have to hustle to give lap dances, and once they get a dance, they don't even get to keep all the money they make. It goes into the furniture and the management. At Jez, I don't mind paying the security guards or pitching in for the utilities that keep our establishing running and clean, but the costumes and makeup and heels aren't cheap. And then of course there's the fact that few people respect what we do and think we're tainted and undeserving of fulfilling lives and relationships.

People like my sister.

But like I said before, the relational politics of stripping are totally backwards. These dreamy girls wearing next to nothing have to chase sloppy, greasy men with beer guts and stained shirts, and they frequently get turned down. Getting turned down night after night by men you would never date wears on you.

Maybe that's the reason I didn't chase Santana. Don't get me wrong, I thought about her. I thought about her constantly. A few times while I danced in the Box, I imagined how I'd feel if she appeared in the shadows and watched me. Her dark eyes would blend into the walls, save for the sad shine that glinted there. She'd cross her arms and try not to touch any of the surroundings. She'd wear one of her cute little sweaters and feel self-conscious about it. She'd watch me, limber as I worked the pole and removed my clothing, and then she would leave. She wouldn't even leave time for me to approach her. At least, that's what I imagined.

So I didn't chase her. I let the heavy reality that she wasn't going to call gradually soak into my resistant, exposed skin.


	14. Hollow

A/N: Thanks to JJ how somehow manages to find time to edit AND write an amazing Unholy Trinity analysis when her semester is picking up. I think she may have discovered a way to fully function intellectually while sleeping because I can't think of any other explanation.

* * *

**Chapter 14: Hollow**

* * *

So here's what you missed on Dandelion: Bar!Britt and Santana had some pretty awesome sex - with eye contact! - after talking about Santana's closet issues, but when Britt went home the next morning, Justine harshed her buzz by asking too many questions about how Britt feels about dating someone fully in the closet, which Britt doesn't want to think about now because she'd rather focus on their upcoming cupcake date. Lab!Britt was completely freaked out by learning that Santana had outed her movie-star ex Callie Wilson and dismissed Justine's hypothesis that Britt was mostly afraid of getting close to someone before going to bed super mad at everyone. Violet woke up to an unintentionally sexy Shy!Santana making pancakes in her kitchen and they chatted about Isaiah's proposal for a bit before Britt snuck a peek at Santana's legs and freaked Santana out, causing her to leave in a hurry. And that's what you missed!

* * *

I went to Santana's house to pick her up for our cupcake convention date. I was so happy we were going to do something besides hang out in each other's apartments. I was pretty excited about the cupcakes too, and I hoped that we'd have sex afterwards.

Not that our relationship was all about sex. It wasn't. That was just one of the most fun parts at the moment. The fact that we could hardly stand to be in the same room without wanting to rip each other's clothes off was... well, awesome.

Not that we never had good conversations. We did. I mean, we'd talked about her not being out, and I'd told her some of the fun stuff from the bar. And some of the not fun stuff from the bar. Some of the awful stuff from the bar.

The point is, we talked too. It wasn't just physical. I really liked her.

Santana looked nervous when she opened the door to meet me. When she gets nervous, she has a hard time making eye contact and her words are clipped and rushed. When I see her acting like that, I try to be extra calm and light, and usually after a while she calms down. This time I had promised to be on my best not-gay behavior, so hopefully that would relax her too.

We chatted a little on the way to Fort Mason. Truthfully, we'd been spending so much time together, there wasn't a lot to talk about besides what we'd eaten and who we'd seen since we last saw each other. That was fine. She turned the radio on, and we talked about music.

But all the while, Justine's questions about whether or not Santana would come out and why she was so afraid to do so were nagging at me. I really wanted to ask Santana why she was so scared and where she saw herself in five years. I wondered how many girls she'd dated. I assumed she'd slept with her fair share, but I wasn't sure about relationships.

But I figured that was a conversation for another day. I had so many things I wanted to ask her, but my desire to show her we could have low-key, covert dates prevailed. We could always talk about serious things later when we were in bed together and I'd helped work out her nerves with at least one orgasm.

Parking was tricky, but we managed to find something that wasn't too far from the entrance to the converted hangar. We waited in line with our tickets for only a few minutes before we were admitted. Inside, the dome of the hanger stretched above dozens of tables decked in colorful tablecloths. Tall tiers of cupcakes sprung up like Christmas trees before us and people jostled and laughed and took sips of wine between snatching quartered cupcakes from displays, faces animated or studious as they chewed and licked their fingers. It was noisy and smelled like spun sugar.

Santana glanced toward the center tables that were selling wine and I figured she'd want a glass to help her nerves.

"Want a glass of wine?" I offered with a perky smile.

"Sure."

"Let me grab a couple. Want to wait here for our first samples?" I asked, pointing to a line that led to the first table of cupcakes.

Santana nodded and I went over to the wine booth, paying for two plastic cups of overpriced wine, bringing one back to Santana. When I handed her cup to her, she gave me a fleeting, flirtatious and grateful smile that assured me she actually wanted to be here with me. I hadn't been sure, to be honest. She was so stiff and terse, I wondered if she'd changed her mind. But that smile was a reminder that this was foreign territory to her.

And to be honest, it was to me too. I'd dated Maggie for a few months in college, but dating in college is different than as an adult. I still don't really feel like an adult, but I'm not in college anymore. Asking Santana to come "hang out in my room" wouldn't constitute a date like it did in college. There had to be more effort that went into it.

I figured I should probably let Santana know that I was winging it just as much as she was. So although up until that point, I had been strict with myself about keeping a little extra distance between our bodies, I sidled up to her for a moment, grateful that straight girls are so affectionate with each other.

"I'm pretty new to this too," I murmured, attempting to look like I was commenting on a particularly glamorous cupcake display.

I felt Santana stiffen next to me and pulled away a few inches, worried I'd spooked her.

"To what?" Santana asked.

"To... cupcake conventions," I said with a wink. I didn't want to say "dating a girl" in public where someone could hear, causing Santana to spin into a panic.

Santana frowned. "Oh," she said, clearly not understanding my euphemism.

I was about to attempt to elaborate about how I'd loved cupcakes since I was little but also lollipops and had mostly committed to lollipops despite how delicious cupcakes were, but I didn't get a chance, because at that moment, Justine appeared.

"Hey guys!" she said, greeting us animatedly. "How long have you been here?"

Santana turned to Justine, seeming a bit startled. "Just a few minutes."

"Are you having fun?" Justine asked, looking back and forth between us, rubbing her hands together. "I hear the cupcakes are _pretty awesome_."

It was obvious from her exaggerated enthusiasm that she wasn't talking about cupcakes.

"Uh, yeah," Santana said.

Avery appeared behind Justine's shoulder and stepped forward to introduce himself to Santana.

"You must be Santana," he said, extending his hand. "I'm Avery. I belong to this one," he said with a grin, pointing to Justine. "Nice to finally meet you. I've heard all about you."

"Only good things," Justine said, putting her hand on Santana's arm to assure her.

"Oh..." Santana said, looking nervous again.

"We'll let you two grab your goodies," Justine said with a wave of her hand. She turned to Avery, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Sweetie, you want some wine?"

Avery nodded. "Nice meeting you," he said, extending his hand again. "I'm sure I'll see you again soon."

Santana gave a stiff nod as she took a sip of her wine.

Once Avery and Justine had moved toward the wine, Santana turned away from me to face another cupcake display. I sensed something was wrong, but I didn't know what it was. Was it being around a straight couple? The same old nerves? Had she seen someone she knew?

I decided to make pleasant conversation to take her mind off whatever was making her anxious. Growing up with my high-strung sister, I was pretty good at recognizing nerves and soothing them. Talking about trivial things with Kimi usually calmed her down. So I tried that with Santana.

"Do you think any of the people who own these cupcakeries wanted to make baked goods for a living as little girls and boys?" I asked. "Like, did they dream of growing up to make sugary goodness? I may have entertained the idea at some point, but it was never as elaborate as participating in a cupcake convention like this. What about you? Did you ever dream of owning a bakery?"

"No."

The word was stiff and anxious.

"Well I guess that's good. The city only has room for so many cupcake shops."

Santana reached the front of the line and picked up her sample, not even waiting for me as she turned away, heading for the next table as she bit off part of her sample.

"How is it?" I asked, anxious that my usual tactics weren't working.

"Good," Santana mumbled through her bite. "I like the orange zest in the frosting."

Eager to have something else to talk about, I put my sample in my mouth. When the zest hit me, I raised my eyebrows in pleasant surprise.

"Wow, that _is_ good."

Santana looked around, distracted. I was about to cave and ask if something was wrong when she turned to me, a serious expression on her face as she leaned close to me and hissed, "Does Justine know?"

"About what?"

"About… us."

I felt myself bottleneck with guilt when I realized that I had talked to Justine about Santana on many occasions, not realizing I was outing her. I wanted to be honest, but I knew Santana wasn't going to like the answer. "Yeah. She knows."

"And Avery?"

"I mean… she might have told him. But I didn't mean to gossip or anything."

Santana continued surveying the busy festival around us. "How much does she know?"

"A little," I said, fibbing. "But she knows not to go yapping to anyone. She's trustworthy. I promise."

Santana gave a distracted nod.

"And she's cool with it?"

"Totally."

Santana seemed to relax a bit, though she still didn't meet my eyes.

Curious if Santana had really meant what she said about no one knowing besides the girls she'd been with, I asked a delicate question.

"Do you have anyone you talk to about it?"

"Naw," Santana said, brushing the question off. "I'm fine."

And though I was pretty sure Santana was uncomfortable with Justine and Avery knowing, I decided that if she was brushing it off at the moment, I would let it go until it came up again.

But I kept a close eye on Santana's nerves as we meandered around the festival and tried samples. We tasted a few atrocious attempts at savory cupcakes and agreed that sweet was always best and that chocolate should always be paired with a bit of sea salt.

Once we'd seen most of what was inside the building, I gave Santana a smile and tilted my head toward the exit. She seemed to exhale in relief, despite the fact that I hadn't so much as touched her the whole afternoon. I was being very careful not to push her into anything. There was no way that anyone at the exhibition had known we were more than friends based on our body language. Even though I was drawn to her as forcefully as I'd even been drawn to anyone, her comfort came first, and I had been a true gentlewoman.

Once we were outside, I asked if she wanted to walk along the pier. It was a nice day and the water was a beautiful gray-blue. But she shook her head, eyes darting around to remember where we'd parked.

So I tucked my hands into my pockets, smiling to reassure her. I wanted to hold her hand more than anything. But I couldn't, so I closed my fists really hard and told myself to be patient.

All the questions Justine had brought up were burning now. Was I going to be able to date Santana in secret in the long-term? Would it cause problems for us, no matter how much we cared for each other? And what would I say if someone asked if I was single?

What would _she_ say?

My anxiety spiked and I tried to push away all the discomfort that was sitting heavily on me. I thought of the good things, the reasons I liked Santana, the reasons that were good enough to justify the accommodations that had to be made.

There was a part of me that actually liked being with Santana in secret. It made our relationship feel precious, bordering on sacred. She had a way of gazing into my eyes when we were naked together that made me feel like she knew everything inside me and loved everything she saw. It was the most intense thing I'd ever felt with another person. That gaze meant everything to me, because it stood in place of the words I suspected she was too scared to say.

But the memory of that gaze didn't make my hands any warmer.

* * *

x

* * *

I woke up, startled by the harsh rattle of my phone against the wood of my desk. Usually I placed my phone on a magazine or a rubber band or something to make sure the vibration wasn't loud enough to wake me, but in my anger last night, I'd been careless. The adrenaline of being jolted awake paired with the chilly air in the room made me shiver as I reached for my phone to silence it. I preemptively prepared myself to see Santana's picture on the contact, assuming she'd claim she was worried that I hadn't replied to her text the night before. I wasn't ready to talk to her yet though. Didn't she get that? I thought I'd made it clear by the way I'd left her car.

I took a breath, steeling myself, but was surprised to see Kimi's contact photo on the screen instead. What was she doing calling me so early?

Prodded by sisterly guilt, I answered the call, not bothering to mask the coarseness of my sleep voice.

"Hello?"

I don't know why people always pretend not to know who it is anymore. With smart phones, we know who is calling most of the time.

"Morning!" Kimi chirped.

"Morning," I grumbled.

"Did I wake you up?" she asked.

I wasn't convinced she was unaware. She knew we had a three hour time difference.

"Sorry, I'm on my second coffee break and was thinking we hadn't talked in awhile. I didn't realize you slept in so late.

"It's seven thirty," I frowned.

"And you work at nine, right?" Kimi said.

"Yeah, so I don't have to be up for another half hour," I whined.

"Oh... well, sorry," Kimi said. "Want me to call back later?"

Figuring I was already awake and knowing I wouldn't be able to complete a whole sleep cycle between now and when my alarm was scheduled to go off, I sat up, feeling my muscles groan as I did.

"It's fine," I said, throwing in a dramatic yawn. "We can talk now."

"Okay!" Kimi said. "Well John and I were thinking of coming to visit sometime soon. Would you be up for a visit from your sister and her fiancé?"

"Of course. I mean, our apartment can't really accommodate two more people, but - wait, did you say _fiancé_?" I asked, suddenly alert.

"Yes!" Kimi shrieked. "He proposed last night!"

I felt my my heart speed up in excitement. I was so happy for Kimi. I know she loves John even if he is as interesting as watching paint dry. I don't have to marry him, so I was happy that Kimi was happy. I really, honestly was.

"Congratulations!" I cheered. "Oh, Kimi, I'm so happy for you!"

"Thanks!" she said, her voice squeaking with excitement. "I'm so happy. _So_ happy."

"Aw, Kimi..." I said, picturing the way her face lifted from its usual serious expression into a girlish smile when she was excited. I'd seen that look only a few times, but I knew she was wearing it now. "Do mom and dad know?" I asked.

"Not yet," she said. "I wanted to tell you first. I know we're not as close as we were when we were little, but... I don't know, it just seemed like something I should tell my sister first," she said. She sounded almost sheepish, as though she did wish we were closer.

"I'm honored," I said, smiling. Kimi and I never argued or fought. There was just a weird divide between us most of the time. But now I didn't feel it so much. I felt like we had a chance at being closer than we used to be. "Mom and dad will be so happy and proud," I assured her. "They love John."

"I hope so," Kimi said.

There was a brief pause and I felt obligated to prolong Kimi's happiness. "How did he ask you?"

"Well," Kimi said, giddiness seeping into her voice, "We were on our way home from getting some cheesecake and champagne after seeing_ Forever Tango_. We had to go through Times Square, which I usually hate because it's so gross and crowded, but it was late enough that all the tourists were gone and it felt peaceful. Well, as peaceful as Times Square can be. We stopped and sat at one of those little tables on the sidewalk and just looked around. It's not such a bad place when all the tourists and barkers are gone. We talked about the last five years together and how our relationship had grown and matured. It was just a sweet, simple conversation. It was a bit chilly, and I must have shivered, because John offered me his coat. Isn't that sweet? After five years he still does that. Anyway, I wrapped the jacket around me and said something silly about how I liked wearing his coat. And then he smiled and reached into his pocket and asked if I'd consider wearing something else of his for the rest of my life. And he pulled out the ring..."

At that Kimi's voice pinched and I could tell she was starting to cry happy tears. That was weird because I couldn't recall her ever crying happy tears. While it was a bit disconcerting, it confirmed to me that there really was no one else in the world that Kimi wanted to marry. She was happier than I'd ever heard her be.

And part of me was jealous of that.

"It's the most beautiful ring," Kimi went on. "Exactly the cut and setting I wanted."

"How did he know?" I asked, confused. Surely John hadn't been able to guess.

"I told him a while ago," Kimi said.

"You _told_ him?" I said, frowning. Wouldn't that kind of spoil the surprise?

"Of course," Kimi said. "He and I talk about everything. That's what intimacy is. I knew he was going to propose. I just didn't know when or how. But, gosh, Britt, it was still so magical. It was _perfect_."

I felt suddenly like my whole concept of what an adult relationship was supposed to be changed. Kimi was suggesting that there was no mystery or allure between her and John, and yet their relationship was still magical and romantic beyond her wildest dreams because of how close they were. It seemed an odd juxtaposition at first, but my sister had a low tolerance for bullshit, so I didn't second-guess her. She really did have everything she wanted.

"I'm so happy for you," I said.

"Will you be a bridesmaid?" she asked, sounding hopeful.

"Of _course_," I said. I knew her best friend Victoria would be her maid of honor, but I was glad she'd asked me to be in the wedding party. Maybe now that we were adults it was time to get closer to her. It seemed to me, all of the sudden, that she knew how to be closer to people than I did.

"I don't want to take up your whole morning bragging about John, though," she said. "How are you?"

I was caught off guard as I contemplated how I was. I wasn't feeling so great, actually. Aside from my usual morning grogginess and the impending dread of having to go work for Turner for the sixty-second week in a row not counting vacations and sick days, I was still unsettled about what had happened with Santana last night.

"Eh, I'm okay..." I said, feeling myself sink from the floating joy I had for Kimi.

"That doesn't sound like 'okay' to me," Kimi said. "Something wrong?"

"I don't want to kill your buzz," I said.

"Nothing could kill my buzz, Britt," Kimi assured. "Tell me."

I debated brushing the issue off, saying I was tired and stressed about work. But I had just agreed to be a bridesmaid in Kimi's wedding and decided to try to get closer to her. She was a good person, and being on opposite coasts meant we had to work at being close.

"Well... I've been seeing someone," I began.

"What's his name?" Kimi said.

I cringed. I know Kimi didn't mean any harm by assuming I was seeing a man, but it was something I hated hearing. I hated that men were the norm. I liked men a lot, but I also liked women, and I didn't like always feeling stuck in the middle.

"_Her_ name," I said, trying not to sound too self-righteous while at the same time making Kimi aware of the hurtfulness of her assumption, "is Santana. We've been seeing each other for about six weeks."

"Aw, that's great, Britt," Kimi said. I was grateful for her unspoken apology. "It's been awhile since you dated someone."

"I know," I said, sighing. "And I really, really liked her."

"Liked? As in past tense?"

"I don't know," I mumbled. "Last night I found out she did something really bad to one of her exes."

"Oh... I'm sorry to hear that."

"And then I tried to talk to Justine about it, and she told me that I was just using it as an excuse to run away because I was scared of getting close to someone."

Kimi hummed pensively. "Are you?"

Now that I wasn't coursing with adrenaline and anger at Santana, I paused to consider Justine's accusation for the first time. Was it possible that I was compounding my shock at what Santana had done with my own fears? Was I more afraid of intimacy than I thought?

"I mean... I don't know. Maybe. But what Santana did was really mean and totally out of line."

"What did she do, if you don't mind me asking?"

I wasn't sure how much I could say without incriminating Santana and outing Callie Wilson for the millionth time.

"She- she outed her ex to get a better job."

"Ouch," Kimi said. "When did that happen?"

I realized I didn't know. "A few years ago, I think."

Kimi hummed again. "Well, Britt... I mean, I don't know anything about her, so I can't tell you what to do. But I'm here to talk if you need me."

Grateful that Kimi wasn't prying, I nodded, even though she couldn't see.

Suddenly desperate for a second opinion, I asked, "Do you think I have a hard time opening up to people?"

Kimi paused for a second, and I instantly knew her answer wasn't going to be _No_.

But her answer wasn't as bad as I expected.

"I think that once you've had your heart shattered the way you did, it gets significantly harder to be open."

I felt something release in my stomach, relieved that Kimi had been gentle in her delivery and that she understood me better than I did myself. "Yeah," I murmured. "It is."

Kimi and I had that in common, I realized. I then thought back to when I'd been in middle school and Kimi had come home for Spring Break instead of going to Florida with her friends. She spent the whole week in her room watching TV, only coming out to shower and get plates of food to pick at. I would come to understand years later that she'd had her heart broken for the first time, but at thirteen, I didn't know what was wrong with her.

"Was it hard to open up to John?" I asked.

"_So_ hard," she said. "He almost gave up on me a few months in. Hell, I almost gave up too. But I'm so glad we didn't."

The happy glow returned to her voice for a moment before she said, "I think you owe it to yourself to give this girl a chance, if you can. I mean, you've got a pretty strong moral compass, so obviously you wouldn't date anyone who hurts kids or kills dolphins or anything. But you know... we're all humans who make mistakes."

I thought back to the time I'd gotten angry and stomped on Kimi's laptop when I was eight. Kimi had been furious, but my mom had intervened, holding her back from screaming at me or pulling my hair.

_Now, Kimi,_ my mom said sternly. _We're all humans who make mistakes. _

And as silence set into the phone line, I realized that my sister had a point.

"Tell me about this girl," Kimi invited.

Cautious, I said, "What do you want to know?"

"Do you like her?" Kimi asked.

Swallowing, I heard myself saying, "So much." I swallowed again, feeling as though I was going to start crying. I had built Santana up to be an impossibly perfect woman, and it was no one's fault my but own when she had failed to live up to my expectations.

"What do you like about her?" my sister asked.

I felt as though describing all the wonderful things about Santana would be too much to handle at this early hour. But Kimi was blissfully calm and a surprisingly good listener for someone with such exciting news of her own.

"She's really smart," I began, "and ambitious and successful. She's beautiful and independent and she takes me to all these cool places and offers to pay for things. She's funny. We get goofy together sometimes. And she's a really good listener. And a good kisser." I felt my heart lift at the thought of Santana's kisses

"You better lock that shit down, then," Kimi said with a laugh. Then her voice softened. "No, but in all seriousness, you sound like you're smitten. Maybe it's both the fear and the fact that she made a mistake that's tripping you up."

"Yeah," I said, realization soaking into my body with relief.

Maybe it wasn't as black and white as Justine had tried to paint it; this wasn't just about me being scared. Santana had made a mistake, and I was letting Santana's mistake inflame my fear. Maybe I felt too vulnerable around her to let go. Maybe this whole not-having-sex thing was a way to protect myself from all the feelings that would come regardless of how much I was wearing or how close her body was to mine.

Maybe I really, truly cared for her, and that's why I was freaking out.

I felt myself start to shake as I let that realization settle into my body. No matter what Santana had done, I had feelings that were stronger than I could control.

I felt myself start to prickle with tears. I had come home from my date the night before burning, trying to convince myself that Santana was a bad person. But Justine and Kimi were right; my reaction had very little to do with Santana.

Overwhelmed and feeling like I'd done enough soul searching for one day - and damn, it was only quarter to eight - I turned the conversation back to Kimi.

"How did you open up to John?" I asked. I wanted some advice, not to mention to get out of spotlight.

"I just told him I was scared," Kimi said. "It was either that or lose him. Intimacy is about sharing the good and the bad things." It was quiet for a moment before she said, "You don't have to do it all at once. You can take baby steps. Dating is figuring out how to make the good and bad work together. You're not stuck with someone until you want to be. And you know… it's the grain of sand that makes the pearl."

Grateful for my sister's sound and calm advice, I let out a sigh and thanked her, congratulating her on her engagement once more and demanding she send me pictures of her ring as soon as we hung up.

Already tired from the half hour I'd been awake, I got in the shower, contemplating my sister's unexpected wisdom. As I lathered and rinsed my hair, I realized that I owed both Santana and Justine apologies. I had overreacted and dismissed two women who really cared about me.

Fear can make us do crazy things.

When I got out, I bumped into Justine on the way to my room. I decided not to waste more time pushing her away. It was difficult to say, but I managed: "Hey, I'm sorry I wrote you off last night about the whole Santana thing. You were right. I'm scared."

Justine gave me a gentle smile that held none of the smugness I expected. "Thanks," she said. "I hope you two can work things out."

"Me too," I said, feeling myself tense at the prospect of apologizing to Santana.

"I'm rooting for you two," Justine said, lifting a fist and pumping it gently. "I wouldn't have sent those flowers pretending to be her if I didn't think she was perfect for you."

Stunned and relieved to finally know who had sent the first damn flowers, I almost dropped my towel.

"That was _you_?" I asked.

Justine gave a guilty nod.

"But… why?"

"You were having a rough week and I wanted you to be happy and excited about something. I knew you'd assume they were from her."

"How did you know that?" I asked, still surprised.

Justine gave a small shrug. "Because despite your hesitance, you're still a romantic at heart."

I sighed, realizing that having someone know me so well wasn't such a bad thing. If a romantic relationship could be as fulfilling and pleasantly surprising as my friendship with Justine, it was definitely something I wanted.

There was just one more hurdle I had to jump.

After thanking Justine, I rushed back into my room and grabbed my phone. It was still warm from my conversation with Kimi. After remarking on the beautiful pictures Kimi sent me of her ring on her perfectly manicured hand, I went back into my text messages and saw what Santana had sent me the night before, her plea that had gone unanswered:

_I'm really sorry I didn't tell you earlier. I know it was wrong and I would never, ever do it again. Please don't hate me. I care about you so much and I hope you still want to see me._

Steeling myself and trying not to get the screen wet with my dripping hair, I typed out, _I don't think you're a bad person. I just needed some time. I'm sorry I freaked out._

She responded right away. _Okay, I understand. Let me know if there's anything you want to know._

_Okay._

There was a long pause before she responded. _Do you still want to see me?_

I felt my pulse rush as I forced myself to type of the truth. _Yes._

Then there was a long pause and she typed, _Can we have lunch Saturday?_

Dreading the prospect but knowing I owed both of us a chance, I agreed.

And even as I fought the dread that came with agreeing to see her, I knew that the dread was nothing more than me fighting to keep myself safe, which had nothing to do with her. She was going to be someone I adored no matter what.

And that was terrifying.

* * *

x

* * *

The rest of the week was just as bad as the first few days after Santana left my house. I felt it was obvious to everyone, including the customers, that I didn't like my work anymore. That was something I never thought would happen. Not since that first glorious night in the Box. Not since deciding I was going to do this. I thought that if I got to dance as a painted lady a few times a week and be paid what I was worth, I would be happy.

But it turns out that isn't how things work. I'd already put in almost a year, so I guess I should have counted myself lucky that I didn't burn out earlier. I danced for a year and didn't get bored. I was solvent and solid in who I was. But that week, I started to feel hollow. I started thinking deeper about the backwardness of the beautiful girls chasing the losers and creeps. What was it that drove girls like me to do this? Was it money? Curiosity? Something empty inside us? Boredom? Given the way girls are sexualized from birth, was it less of a choice than I was making it? I started wondering what there was for me to do now that I wasn't fulfilled by being bare.

Callie didn't say anything to me directly. She threw me a few pitying glances, which may have actually been worse than confronting me. Her looks seemed to say, _I'm sorry this isn't working for you anymore, but this is just how it is._

I stopped talking to Callie so much because I knew she could see right through my skin to my hollow inside. I avoided Justine too, simply because I didn't want to talk about any of it. I didn't want to acknowledge that I had been sent into a tailspin, an abyss of questioning that seemed bottomless.

I managed to stave off the depression. I requested a week off, and, miraculously, the vacation was granted. Aside from the three pole classes I still had to teach, I spent the week lying on my couch reading books, hoping they would provide some kind of escape. When they didn't, I put the books down and started playing computer games. That worked a little better, but when two of the female Sims started falling in love, I had to quit.

I started sorting through my apartment. I mended clothing that had little holes, gave away dishes I never used, organized the things I always intended to. To the outside observer, I was being productive. But to me, I was just filling the time. I regretted taking the vacation by the third day. It seemed a waste not to be somewhere exotic and thrilling with my precious time off. I had the money, and for a brief moment, I contemplated cancelling my Swivel classes and driving up to Mendocino or down to San Diego for a few days. But I knew I'd just do the same thing, wandering around listlessly, putting off the basic daily tasks of showering and eating for no reason other than I didn't want time to confine me so much.

I couldn't avoid Justine forever. She knew something was up when she came home to find the front closet immaculate. Luckily, she took a gentle approach in confronting me. She handed me a glass of wine and settled into her chair next to the couch.

"I'm worried about you, Britt," she said, her voice low and uncharacteristically gentle. "The cleaning doesn't usually go on this long."

I appreciated her thought, but I didn't want to talk about how I was lusting after a straight girl who was probably engaged by now.

So I bluffed.

"I'm getting dragged down by work," I said, sighing with the full heaviness that stripping had saddled me with.

"How so?" Justine said, tipping her head as she eased back into her chair, relieved I was finally talking.

"I don't know… Just wondering at one point it's not a job anymore. I never saw myself as a career stripper, but I've been at it for nine months and I'm not exactly looking around for anything else. Pretty soon there's an obvious gap in my résumé that I don't want to have to explain."

Justine nodded, contemplating my ordeal. "Well, you've got Swivel, right? You love that."

"I do love that," I said, giving a lackluster smile. Teaching had been the only bright spot in my awful week. "But that won't pay all my bills. And I still don't know what to do about the car…" I said, gesturing toward the window closest to the street.

Justine gave me a concerned pout. She didn't say anything for a long time and I felt guilty for being dishonest with her about the source of my unhappiness. I just couldn't tell her I'd done something as stupid as falling for a straight girl.

So I kept talking. "I just don't feel like I'm making a difference, you know? Kind of feels like a waste of time."

What I said was true - I had no delusions about making the world a better place by dancing naked and entertaining strangers' fantasies. But it wasn't my primary concern at the moment.

Justine frowned deeper and nodded, though she didn't look convinced. "That would bother me too." She paused again. "Is there anything else?" she asked.

Knowing I couldn't lie with words, I shook my head.

Justine pouted again, not pushing me to explain more. "Maybe you just need to get out. Are you working tomorrow night?"

I shook my head again.

"Good!" Justine chirped, perking up. "One of my coworkers just got engaged and we're all going out to celebrate. You should come!"

Instantly my stomach dropped and I felt as though my heart was filled with lead.

Isaiah worked with Justine. That's how I'd met Santana in the first place.

Santana had said yes.


End file.
